The Key to Castles in the Air
by LadyKailitha
Summary: John is a clerk (and writing a book on the side) at a bookshop run by Mrs Hudson. The one downside to this perfect job is Sherlock Darling, Mrs Hudson's friend who loves to rile John up. About everything. All that changes when they are forced to spend a week together in the country when bad weather hits. Sherlock's got secrets. What will John do once he finds them out? Author!AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So the idea for this comes from two of my favorite movies of all time. You've Got Mail and Pride and Prejudice: A Latter Day Comedy (which is broadly Mormon cinema, it doesn't say outright but it's there). So if you've seen either, you know approximately where this going to go. If not, you're in for a fun ride.**

**The title comes from a quote from "Little Women" about writing. I liked it enough that I thought it would be a good title.**

**My elbow is stiff now, so I'm slowly working on this. Just know, it is finished. I just don't know how long it's going to be.**

* * *

John loved his job. There was nothing better than being an aspiring writer and getting to be surrounded by books all day. And what was even better, 221 Books was one of those small, intimate bookshops that were rare these days.

What John didn't love, however, were those first twenty minutes after opening when "Sherlock Darling" came in to chat with shop owner Mrs Hudson. Well that, and the pitying glances at his cane.

John had learned to get over those fairly quickly, but he would grit his teeth as Mrs Hudson fawned over this man and they talked and talked. God only knew what it was they talked about, John tried to ignore them. Plus, he didn't have leisure to chat when he had _actual_ work to do.

At first John had thought Sherlock was Mrs Hudson's son, but that was put to bed one day when Sherlock had been running late because Mycroft wanted him to do something (John couldn't quite hear, he had been dealing with a customer at the time) for their parents' yearly memorial.

So, of course he asked.

Mrs Hudson laughed, "Sherlock is a dear friend, and I am fond of him. But no, I don't have any children."

And every time "Sherlock Darling" came in, John had flashbacks to their first meeting, two months ago.

_It was John's first day solo, after Mike had trained him in all the ins and outs of the shop. But the one thing Mike didn't do was warn him about Sherlock. _

_The bell to the shop tinkled above the door and John turned to greet the customer, a tall bloke with dark, wild curls and eyes sparkling with mischief. _

"_Hello," John said, "welcome to 221 Books!"_

"_You have the Molly Hooper books in the wrong order," he sneered in reply. "'_The Clockmaker's Assistant' _comes before '_The Machinist's Wife' _in the series." _

_John had spent hours on that shelf for Hooper's books the night before and his temper flared. He clamped it down and smiled. "I'll be sure and fix it, how can I help you today?"_

"_I'd start by firing your therapist, not only are they not helping with the limp, they still haven't figured out you're bisexual. And if they can't figure _that _out, what good are they?"_

_Before John could open his mouth to retort, Mrs Hudson came out from the back room. _

"_Sherlock, darling!" she cooed. "I though I heard your dulcet tones. I hope you're being nice to John." _

_Sherlock Darling just grinned and she swatted at him playfully and not at all like he had just filleted open her employee. _

And that wasn't even the worst of it, each new day Sherlock Darling would come in and find some new thing to belittle and sneer at.

John's attempts to speak to Mrs Hudson would only earn him a pat on the arm and the insistence that Sherlock Darling meant well.

So John learned to grit his teeth and bear it. Today, he wasn't so lucky.

John was forced to straighten out Molly Hooper's display table because the night before a rampaging hoard of teenage girls had come through, bought three copies of everything, and left it a complete mess. He had wanted to do it then, but Mrs Hudson had a date and wanted to close up quickly. John was juggling trying to straighten the books and his cane that kept falling to the ground every time he moved, when Sherlock Darling came in.

"You're doing it wrong," he said with the curl of his upper lip.

John looked up at him and then over at the display. The books were ordered from oldest to newest, left to right. "What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "People tend to grab not from the left but in the middle. Think of it like the winners' podium in the Olympics. Gold in the middle, that's the first book in a series. Silver to the left, that's the second book. Bronze to the right, and that's the third book. And if the series has more than three, _then _subsequent books go left to right."

John scoffed. "You act like you've been _in_ the Olympics."

"I have," Sherlock said with a grin. "Two thousand twelve, gold medal, in fact. And before you ask, I also know a thing or two about books, but I don't feel the need to flash my credentials, especially to you."

John rolled his eyes, but before he could come back with an equally scathing comment, Mrs Hudson arrived and pulled the annoying man away, leaving John to figure out the display.

He decided that Sherlock was being a twat and left it the way he had it. He had other things to do, he didn't have time to rearrange things just because some posh wanker said so.

However, by lunch John was over there and changing it to the way Sherlock had suggested, because people kept picking up the second book first and John would have to tell them about the first one.

The next morning John braced himself for the inevitable peacock posturing Sherlock would exude at being right when he saw the display the way he suggested it.

And sure enough, when Sherlock Darling walked into the shop with the usual coffee and raspberry scones for Mrs Hudson, there was that little self-satisfied grin he always got when he was right. He opened his mouth to say "I told you so" when Mrs Hudson came hurrying over to greet him.

John's usual plan was to ignore the giant twat until he fucked off to wherever it was this _wanker_ went in the mornings. Where, John had no doubt, he never did anything of substance.

Or he would have done, if Mrs Hudson hadn't handed the man his most potent ammunition to date.

"John, how's the book coming?" she called as he was stocking shelves.

John blushed furiously and bit down hard on his lower lip.

John could practically _feel_ the eye roll that went with the derisive snort. "Are you actually writing a book, or are you one of those sorts that claim they are writing a book to impress people?"

Mrs Hudson swatted at him and shushed him.

John cleared his throat and lifted his chin, his back ramrod straight. He did a perfect about face and looked Sherlock square in the eye.

"I'm on my _seventh_ draft and it's killing me. I'm trying to bridge these two scenes," he said defiantly.

Sherlock smirked over his coffee cup as he took a sip.

John's eyebrows snapped downward and he glared at Sherlock in suspicion. "What?" he snarled.

"If you can't bridge a pair of scenes, don't," came the cool reply.

"Excuse me?" John was incredulous.

"You heard me," Sherlock simpered.

"You can't have two unconnected scenes," John hotly defended. "The reader will be confused."

"Not at all," Sherlock said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child or dimwit. "If the two scenes are well written, the reader will form their own conclusions on how the characters got from point A to point B."

John had reached the end of his tether and snapped, "You're a real dick, you know that?"

"John!" Mrs Hudson admonished.

Sherlock looked at his watch. He kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek. "It's all right, Mrs H." He turned to John. "If I had a quid for every time someone called me a dick, or some other lowbrow insult, I'd be rich."

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, "You already are rich, darling."

Sherlock chuckled warmly. "I know." He winked at John and _sauntered_ out of the shop.

He sighed as Mrs Hudson proceeded to give him a dressing down over calling her friend a dick. Insulting him should have made John feel better. To finally one up this arse, but instead John felt hollow.

And when Sherlock Darling didn't come to the shop the next day, the hollow feeling filled with something like regret.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I think this is THE quickest turn around for a chapter that wasn't already typed out I have EVER done. Now, don't get use to this, how fast a chapter gets done depends on how long it is. It might take two days or a week depending. But because it is already written, it shouldn't take longer than a week. Fingers crossed.**

* * *

John stubbornly ignored "Sherlock Darling's" advice and painstakingly bridged the two scenes. He hated the bridging section, but he felt it was necessary to move the plot. There was too much that needed to be explained.

Once the bridge was done, he finally felt like the book was ready to send off to publishers. But each rejection stung a little more. The only thing that kept him from giving up altogether was when he got a new rejection letter he would look up one of his favorite authors to see how many rejection letters they got. It was usually in the double digits, and not _low_ double digits either. And he would feel better.

And then it came. It was tucked between a bill and an ad for weight loss. It wasn't an acceptance letter. Not really, but the publisher wanted to meet with him to discuss the possibility of releasing it. But it was still exciting.

The next morning, John was practically vibrating with excitement all through Sherlock Darling's visit. The thinly veiled insults and snarky comments couldn't even dent John's good mood. And when the bell tinkled, heralding Sherlock's exit from the shop, he finally burst.

"Mrs Hudson, I got a letter saying they want to see me about my book!" he said, picking her up and spinning her around. "I'll need Saturday off."

Mrs Hudson laughed. "Of course you can have the day off. I'll call around to my former employees and see if someone will be willing to cover for you. And if not, don't worry about it. I can do it myself."

John kissed her cheek. "You are a gem, Mrs Hudson."

And then she proceeded to tell everyone who came in that John was going to be a published author. He didn't mind her telling customers, especially regulars, but boy did he mind when she told Sherlock Darling.

"Sherlock darling, do you remember the book John was working on?" Mrs Hudson began the next morning.

Sherlock snorted in derision.

John glared at him, but Mrs Hudson completely ignored it and continued, "He's got a meeting with a perspective publisher on Saturday."

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Who?"

John waved his hand dismissively. "No one you'd have heard of. They're a smaller company."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said fluttering her hands. But as she did so, it knocked Sherlock's coffee out of his hand and onto the floor where the hot liquid splashed on his legs.

John ran to get towels and the first aid kit in case it was needed. Burns were nasty and shouldn't be taken lightly. But by the time he had returned, Sherlock Darling had taken off. John sighed, but went about cleaning up the mess.

* * *

John fidgeted with his cane nervously as he waited for the train that would take him out to the apparently grand estate of the owner of Shercroft Publishing. Mr M Holmes had paid for John's ticket and had told him that there would be someone waiting at the train station to take him to the house out in Sussex.

John got on the train like he usually did, his rucksack slung over one shoulder, but strangely couldn't find his seat. He finally gave up and asked an attendant. The attendant led him to the first class cabin that he had all to himself. The attendant then told him that all food and drinks were included, to be charged to the tab of the mysterious Mr M Holmes.

John enjoyed the trip, making sure to eat more than he drank. The last thing he needed was to show up drunk and completely blow this chance at becoming a published author.

Once John had got off the train, he looked around the station, scanning the crowd for whoever Mr Holmes sent to pick him up. Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't the lovely woman with dark eyes and brown hair wearing a smart trouser suit.

He walked up to her and said, "John Watson, are you here for me?"

She smiled up at him, "The train was on time for a change, so we are a bit ahead of schedule, do you want to stretch your legs some before we go?"

John noted that she hadn't mentioned her name, but he knew the type. Asking for it, no matter how nicely, would result in either a knee to the groin or being completely ignored. And neither was worth it. Plus he wanted to stay on her good side.

"If you don't mind," John replied. "It would be good to walk around before being pretzelled into the back of car." He lifted his cane ruefully to make his point.

She smiled. "Of course not, but we only have a couple of minutes."

John nodded and stretched. He went to the loo and washed his face and hands and then made a circuit around some pillars to warm up his leg.

And then let the woman lead him to a car. She slid in on one side and John on the other. The lizard side of his brain was telling him to ask for her number, while his actual brain was practically screaming for him not to. He told the lizard brain to shut up and ended up making small talk instead.

He decided that she wasn't his type anyway by the time they got to the estate. Which was absolutely gorgeous. It was a stately home that wasn't big or ostentatious. And was nestled in a set of woods that would make Jane Austen fans green with envy. John fell in love immediately.

Waiting for them in front of the house like a baronet was the mysterious M Holmes. He wasn't what John had expected at all. Granted he didn't know for sure what a publisher would look like, but M Holmes wasn't it.

He was a tall man with dark red hair and deep blue eyes. He was broad-shouldered and cut a fine figure in his three-piece suit.

Once the car came to a stop, John got out and made his way to Mr Holmes.

"Dr Watson," Mr Holmes greeted warmly. "I hope the train ride down was pleasant."

John shook his hand, briefly shifting his cane over to his other hand. "It was wonderful, thank you, Mr Holmes."

"I'm glad," Mr Holmes replied, "and please call me Mycroft. Mr Holmes makes me feel so old."

"Mycroft," John repeated.

"I figure we would take a light lunch out on the veranda and then retire to my study to go over your manuscript," Mycroft said, leading John into the house, the PA following close behind.

"That sounds fantastic," John said.

Just then Mycroft's phone rang. He looked at with a frown. "You'll pardon me, I have to take this. Anthea will show you to the veranda and I will be in as soon as I can."

Anthea nodded and led John away as Mycroft answered the phone.

Once they got to the veranda, John was in awe of the spread before him. There were fruits and meats and cheeses and every good thing imaginable. And that was just the food, the drinks included several nice vintages of wine, good rum, whiskey and other spirits. But there were also water and juices for those that didn't drink.

John was impressed. He wavered between starting to eat now and waiting for Mycroft to return.

"Oh no," came a warm baritone behind him.

John spun around to see Sherlock Darling standing in the entryway. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "I live here. What are–" he stopped. "Wait, don't tell me, my brother has agreed to look at your book."

John opened his mouth to snarl a response when Mycroft interrupted them.

"Sherlock, thank goodness you're here," Mycroft said. "This will make things easier."

Sherlock whirled on the elder Holmes sibling. "What now?'

John frowned, apparently this wanker was rude to everyone. Including his family.

Mycroft ignored him and spoke to John. "I'm afraid one of my best writers is having a bit of a meltdown and I don't know how long this call will take. But I'm sure Sherlock will be able to keep you entertained until I'm through."

John couldn't see Sherlock's expression, but he could feel the tension coming off the man in waves.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock warned.

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed. "You are part of this company, it is the least you can do while I deal with one of our most _important _clients."

Sherlock let out a barely concealed snarl and barked, "Fine. But you owe me big time for this. I don't deal with clients, that's _your_ job. Not mine."

Mycroft waved him off. "Yes, yes. Fine. I need to get back to my client."

He turned on his heel and strolled away, leaving an angry Sherlock and a bitter and confused John in his wake.

Sherlock spun to face John, "Please eat and drink as much as you like. This is for you, after all."

John went and got a bit of his favorites and sat down at the table. He watched Sherlock pour two drinks and handed one to John.

"So what is it that you do, exactly?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and downed his drink in one gulp. "I am the 'Sher' of Shercroft Publishing."

John blinked. He assumed that Shercroft was the last name of whoever owned the company. "And I guess that would mean that Mycroft is the 'croft' part of that equation."

Sherlock nodded, leaping up to pour himself another drink. "He originally wanted Mylock Publishing but it was pointed out that it sounded too much like the ape-like creatures from 'The Time Machine'."

"Not the best connotation for a publishing company, I'll admit," John said between bites. He finally took a sip of whatever it was Sherlock poured him and whistled in appreciation. "That is some good stuff."

Sherlock's lip curled in disdain. "My brother puts out only the best for potential clients. It's to butter them, you see. Make them more susceptible to suggestion and less likely to pitch a fit when told that their 'baby' needs a lot of work before being fit to be published."

Again John opened his mouth to retort when Mycroft appeared at the door.

"Sherlock, I need to speak to you in private," Mycroft said, in a voice that brooked no argument. He turned to John. "Please continue to eat and drink your fill. And then please join us in my study." He pointed behind him. "It's that room there."

John nodded and watched as the two brothers walked off. He frowned in thought, but did as Mycroft bid. It would have been a waste to let all this good food and drink spoil just because something had come up.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello, and welcome to yet another chapter of this absolutely fun story. The chapters are coming along nicely and I'm moving at a steady pace. I don't want to tell you ****_how _****I'm moving along so well, because I don't want to jinx it. **

**Um...cliffhanger? (author runs and hides)**

* * *

John finished his lovely lunch and went in search of his hosts.

However, when he neared the study, John could hear raised voices and judging from the exasperation in Mycroft's voice, this had been going on for a while.

"I don't care!" Sherlock bellowed. "Rabbit them out of a damned hat for all I care, I am not doing it!"

"There isn't anyone available, Sherlock," Mycroft growled. "There is a reason I'm the one doing it today."

"Then reschedule!" Sherlock screamed.

"It's one face to face, it's not as though I'm asking you to do this all the time," Mycroft reasoned. "In fact, this is the first time I have ever done so."

"Fine," Sherlock bit out, "but make sure it's the last."

"Dear lord, you are dramatic," Mycroft huffed. "Yes, I won't ask you again."

John chose that moment to knock.

"Come in!" Mycroft called.

John opened the door to find a petulant but resigned Sherlock and an annoyed but smugly satisfied Mycroft standing in the middle of the room.

"Am I interrupting something?" John asked tentatively.

"Not at all," Mycroft said, glaring at Sherlock. "But I'm afraid something has come up and I am unable to make our meeting."

John bowed his head, "Is there any chance we can reschedule?" The fact that the man was a massive twat, and the fuss Sherlock made were only a couple of reasons he didn't want the man anywhere near his book. And the fact that Sherlock didn't seem to want to go anywhere near the book either, well, that was fine by John.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft said. "My meeting with the BBC to film a limited series of my client's books got moved up to today and then I'll be far too busy to do another face to face for sometime."

"Oh," John breathed.

"But you are lucky," Mycroft said cheerfully. "My brother is an expert at judging good quality stories and is happy to step in."

"Mycroft..." Sherlock warned, his voice low and deadly.

"You'll do fine," Mycroft assured him and patted him on the shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to be going."

And with that Mycroft left a confused John and a seething Sherlock behind.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and suddenly the petulant child was gone and in his place was a shrewd businessman.

He sat in Mycroft's chair behind the desk and indicated to John to sit in the armchair in front of him.

John sat down on the edge of the seat, nervously clutching his cane. "Have you done this sort of thing before?"

Sherlock glared at him. "I may be in marketing as a publicist now, but I learned to do this sort of thing, same as Mycroft."

"You're a publicist?" John asked, and suddenly everything about the man made sense.

"Chief publicist. I got the job after I finished the Olympics," Sherlock explained.

"I've always meant to ask," John began, "which sport did you medal in?"

Sherlock's grin turned feral. He pointed to the gold medal behind him, "Fencing."

John got up to take a look at the plaque. Sure enough, it read "Sherlock Holmes, gold medalist, 2012."

"Why does your brother have it instead of you?" John asked, coming back to sit down. He settled into the chair and arranged his cane and bag.

"I did it on a lark," Sherlock said with a shrug. "My fencing teacher said I was too lazy to do anything with the sport, so I went out of my way to prove him wrong." He grimaced. There was a reason his fencing teacher thought that, but it wasn't anything _John_ needed to know.

After a moment of stunned silence from John, Sherlock cleared his throat, "Let's get started."

John got out a notebook and a pen to keep notes. Grammar and punctuation would be gone over with his editor once he got one; this was about plot and what needed to be fixed to make the story worth being published.

Sherlock opened the manuscript of "The War of One" by JH Watson on Mycroft's desk and flipped to the first page. "Right, the first line should hook the reader into the story. There is a reason 'It was a dark and stormy night' is a trope. It hooks the reader into knowing what kind of story they are about to get into. However, your first line is all tell and no show."

John frowned and growled, "I have heard that a hundred times and no one has _ever_ explained what that means."

"It means instead of saying a character is sad, say that the character's shoulders were rounded as he clutched his chest, tears streamed down his face as he choked out a sob," Sherlock replied.

John blinked. "But doesn't that make it more...I don't know, wordy?"

"The extra words emotionally invest a reader into the character, if it's well written they won't mind the extra words. It's like that old saying, a good book and a good cup of tea are always going to leave you wanting more," Sherlock said.

John nodded and wrote down the notes.

Sherlock turned to the next page, "Right, so clearly you have a lot of punctuation and grammar issues. If we decide to pick up your book after you make the necessary changes, we have a list of editors who would go over that with you."

John bit back a snarling comment about how he was a soldier not an English teacher and wrote down that they would be providing an editor.

"Next scene, Mycroft says that the hero is a bit stiff and stoic, it says 'no personality to speak of'," Sherlock droned on, already bored.

"Excuse me?" John asked. "He's based on me."

Sherlock sighed. "It's not a slight against you as a person, but as a writer. Don't be afraid to give him flaws. Like drinking, or bad at cards, or even a temper."

John clenched his teeth, fighting back the urge hit this pompous prick in the face.

Sherlock huffed out another sigh. "I'm not saying _you_ have those flaws, I'm only using those as examples. You are free to give him whatever flaws you want as long as you make them believable."

They continued on like this for the better part of an hour, oblivious to the darkening sky.

And then Sherlock got to a part of the story that made him pause. "I think we will save this one until the end." He turned to another page.

John frowned. "Why?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it. "Better yet, I'll have Mycroft email it to you."

"Oh no," John said. "You tell me what it is says." His voice was low and deadly. "I really want to know what is so bloody mind-blowing that you would fob it off to your brother to deal with."

Sherlock gulped and turned back to the offending section. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "The scene between when the hero is bleeding out and when he wakes up in hospital is a bit long winded. It would be better if it was cut down or left out altogether."

"Excuse me?" John bit out. "I spent a lot of time on that scene and you're telling me it's unnecessary?"

"I knew you would act this way," Sherlock snapped back. "I knew the second I saw _Mycroft's_ notes on the scene, it must have been the one we discussed. And like with everything I've said, you have completely ignored my advice on the matter."

"Well excuse me, I didn't know I was speaking with some hotshot publicist," John sneered. "I think the scene is important and I don't care what you say."

"These are _not_ my notes," Sherlock growled. "They are Mycroft's."

"Like I believe that you didn't know it was me coming down here today," John scoffed.

"If I had, I would have stayed in London for the weekend!" Sherlock bellowed.

John didn't know when he had stood up, but he was towering over the desk and Sherlock, his cane on the floor, forgotten. "Fuck you," he muttered.

And just as if God himself had planned it, the lights went out.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:Moving right along. If this keeps up, we'll be finished with this lovely story in no time. Which considering I haven't gotten very far in the Beauty and the Beast story may not be so great. I haven't even introduced Sherlock yet. LOL! Oops!**

**But if it does get to that point I have other "one-shots" I can type up while I'm writing "Curses" but with any luck we won't have to worry about that. **

**Enjoy! (No cliffhanger this time)**

* * *

There was a low buzzing noise and the overhead light came on, but most of the room was still dark.

"What the hell?" John exclaimed.

"The power has gone out," Sherlock muttered. "We have a generator, but it's only for necessities. We aren't out at the estate that often to warrant a bigger one."

"So what does it run?" John snapped.

"Some lights, the kitchen; no internet, though," Sherlock replied, his shoulders hunching up around his ears.

"How often does this happen?" John asked, his temper rising even more with the short, almost non-answers he was getting from Sherlock.

"Often enough that we got a generator, of course," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I'll go find out what happened, let's just hope whatever it was that knocked out the power didn't knock out the mobile tower as well."

Incredulous, John asked,"You think?"

Sherlock swept out of the room and the door slammed just as the flash of lightning lit the room. It was followed (far too quickly in John's opinion) by the thunder.

John didn't know what to do. He had let his temper get the best of him and now what might be his only shot of getting his book published somewhere other than online had gone out the window.

He had been told that this meeting was going to be rough. By Mike, by Mrs Hudson, by things he'd read online. And he let his temper get the better of him. But before he could wallow in his misery, Sherlock came back.

If Sherlock had seemed upset before, it was nothing compared to how stricken the man looked now. His already pale skin looked ashen and his hands shook.

"I've called around and it appears that there has been some flash flooding in the area and it has buried the only major road out of here under about eight feet of water. There are crews trying to prevent further damage, but it's all being directed towards keeping things from getting worse rather than clean up," Sherlock rambled.

"Okay..." John said slowly. "And when do they expect to start the clean-up process?"

"They can't do anything until the rain stops," Sherlock replied.

"I figured that," John bit out; he was on the verge of losing his temper again. "When do they expect the rain to stop?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before he said through clenched teeth, "At least three days."

"Three days!" John shrieked, "But I have to be back to work tomorrow."

Sherlock winced. "I don't like it any more than you do, but there is nothing I can do about it."

"I didn't bring an overnight bag," John said, panic rising in his chest. "I don't have a toothbrush, anything to sleep in or change into...what am I going to do for three days?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a flash of lightning and a boom of thunder. Sherlock's eyes went wide and his face drained entirely of color. And before John could ask what was wrong, the publicist had turned on his heel and was out the study door, slamming it behind him.

John frowned in confusion. What was that about? He shook his head. He had other things to do besides worry about someone who hated him. Like call his boss and explain why he wasn't going to be at work.

"John!" Mrs Hudson greeted warmly. "How did it go?"

"I fucked it up good," he replied numbly.

"Oh no!" she cooed. "What happened?"

"I didn't tell who I was going to see, did I?" John asked.

"No, I don't believe you did," the bookshop owner agreed.

"Shercroft Publishing," John told her unhappily.

"Oh John..." Mrs Hudson murmured. "Was Sherlock there?"

"Yeah," John said weakly. "I was supposed to be meeting with Mycroft, but he had an emergency meeting come up and left Sherlock to take over. And I couldn't keep my temper in check. So, no, I don't think they'll want to publish my book ever. Might even make sure no else does, too."

"Sherlock's not that kind of man," Mrs Hudson soothed. "Well, when you get back into town, I'll take you out for a nice dinner and commiserate."

"About that," John hedged. "That's why I'm calling. There was, rather _is_ a freak storm and I won't be able to get back to London for _days." _

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson fluttered. "I'm sure I'll manage, John. Mike has been so helpful, I'm sure if I ask, he'll be happy to stick around for a couple more days."

"Thanks, Mrs H," John said and rang off. He looked at his phone for a minute and dialed another number.

"Hey, John," Mike greeted warmly. "How's the countryside?"

"Currently being pissed on so badly that everything has flooded and I'm stuck here," John groused. "Most likely for three days, at _least_."

"Really?" Mike asked, incredulous. "Where did you say you were going?

"Sussex," John murmured.

"Hold on, let me check," Mike muttered. He let out a low whistle. "Whoever told you three days was _seriously_ underselling it."

"What do you mean?" John asked, frowning.

"The weather forecast is giving it five to seven days on the inside. Ten on the outside," Mike explained.

"What?!" John cried. "No, no, no. I can't be here that long. I'd go mad, kill Sherlock Holmes and then myself."

"Sherlock?" Mike asked. "Shit, it was Shercroft Publishing you were meeting with, wasn't it?"

"Yep," John said, popping the 'P'. "He's a giant prick, Mike, and I'm stuck with him for a _week." _

Mike sighed. "Look, I get it. Most days he sets my teeth on edge, too. But he didn't used to be like this. He was a great kid when I first met him."

John thought about how frightened Sherlock looked earlier and had to ask, "What happened?"

"People being enormous cunts is what happened," Mike growled. "He wrote a book and it was good. It just had some...themes that people didn't appreciate."

"Like what?" John thought it would be something like graphic violence or rape or something equally mature.

"The main male character kissed a boy," Mike deadpanned. "But they didn't _say_ that. It was a YA urban fantasy novel and critics and the public alike _destroyed _it. They called it bland, trashy, and juvenile when they were being 'kind'; worthless, mindless drivel from a rich white boy when they weren't."

"What the hell?" John muttered. He didn't even like Sherlock and already he thought that was going too far. Especially for a first book.

"He doesn't like to get close to people anymore because once they find out who he is, they almost _always_ bring up his book," Mike continued. "I'm surprised you didn't know."

"I've been overseas for the last fifteen or so years; if it happened during that time, I wouldn't have heard about it," John explained with a shrug.

"Yeah, okay," Mike replied. "Just...go easy on him, yeah? He might be a prick, but he's been hurt bad."

John let out a sigh, "Yeah, I'll do what I can."

"Thanks," Mike said, sounding relieved. "I'll see you later."

John rang off for a second time and was left feeling...he honestly didn't know. But that was some heady information he had been told, and while he could look it up online, he decided to trust Mike on this one.

He tapped his phone against his lips and put the other hand on his hip. He honestly didn't know what he wanted to do with this information. He could bring up to Sherlock, let him know that he since he was in Afghanistan at the time this whole shit storm went down, he would be the last person in the world to care.

But the more he thought about it, the less of a good idea that seemed. He would have to reveal his source and he didn't want to get Mike into trouble.

While he was thinking about it, the door to the study opened and Sherlock walked in carrying a bundle of clothes.

"I spoke to my brother-in-law, and he was willing to lend you some of his old things that he doesn't fit into anymore so that you can have some things to change into while you are here and to sleep in," Sherlock explained, thrusting the pile at John.

John took it gratefully. "Thanks, I really appreciate this."

"They may be a little big, my brother-in-law is a good three to four inches taller than you, but it'll be better than being forced to wear the same thing every day for however long this takes," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah," John agreed.

Sherlock coughed and turned away. In the dim light, John was sure he saw Sherlock's cheeks tinge pink.

John was almost charmed until he remembered the awful things this man had said to him almost every day for the past couple of months.

Just then the room again lit up in an impressive lightning array. Followed closely by a near deafening boom of thunder.

Sherlock covered his ears and dropped to a crouch. It was followed by a couple more booms as lightning continued to flash.

Once there was a break in the lightning, Sherlock got up and ran from the room.

Oh! Sherlock was afraid of thunder.

And just like that, John felt a rush of sympathy for the other man. He knew what it was like living with something that other people would scoff and sneer at, having come home from the war with PTSD.

Now all John had to do was find the idiot before he had panic attack.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello! Yet another chapter! Yay! It's a bit fluffy. :D**

* * *

The problem with a house as large as the one the Holmes brothers lived in was that there were _so_ many doors. And trying to figure out which one held a certain annoying publicist without feeling like he was invading the owners' privacy was quite a bit of challenge.

So he knocked. On _every_ door. Well, almost. John was about to knock on this beautiful set of double doors when he heard some shuffling and muffled muttering coming from the other side.

He opened the door slowly, calling out, "Sherlock? Are you in here?"

There was some scrambling and when John had opened the door wide enough, he saw Sherlock standing up, a duvet in a puddle at his feet.

Sherlock kicked at the duvet and tried to wipe his tears away without being seen.

John noticed, but decided not comment. "Hey."

Sherlock sniffed angrily. "Are you here to mock me?"

John's head rocked back and then he cocked it to the side. "Do you get mocked a lot?"

Sherlock glared at him."I'm a grown man who's afraid of thunder, what do you think?"

"I think anyone who mocks others for _any_ fears or phobias they have needs to be punched in the teeth," John said calmly, crossing his free arm in front of his chest.

Sherlock lifted his chin but said nothing.

John sighed and stepped closer. "Look, I know you think my therapist is shit, and frankly so do I most days, but she does have one thing going for her."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"The belief that most fears and phobias come from some kind of trauma," John admitted. "And as a soldier suffering from PTSD, taking the mickey out someone else just because they are afraid of something seems a bit churlish if you ask me."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh."

"I have a fear of rushing water," John explained. "Washing my hands and taking a shower is fine." He pointed to the weather outside, "Rain, too. But a fast running river or even drawing a bath is out. I don't know why it's that specific, but according to my therapist, it can be. She says I associate the sound with when I got shot."

Sherlock gulped. "I'm sorry."

John waved his hand. "Don't worry about it, I'm just saying I'm gonna be the last person to mock anyone for being afraid of thunder."

"I was in a tree when a pretty big storm hit," Sherlock said, looking down at his shoes. "I was supposed to be inside taking a nap, but I thought I saw a squirrel with something shiny and I wanted to see what it was." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Did lightning hit the tree you were in?" John asked gently.

Sherlock shook his head. "It was the thunder. Lightning lit up the sky in beautiful pale blue but the thunder crashed almost immediately. It frightened me so badly, I fell out of the tree and broke my arm."

"Ouch," John commiserated. "That must have been awful."

"Not as awful as not having anyone around to help you and having to walk back to the house in the pouring rain to explain to your mother that you broke your arm doing something you shouldn't have been doing at a time you should have been safe in the house napping," Sherlock muttered bitterly.

"That would do it, yeah," John agreed.

Sherlock looked down at the blanket he had kicked away from himself when John came in, "Are you sure you won't mock me?"

"Quite," John replied firmly.

Sherlock flopped on the floor and pulled the blanket over his head in time for a lightning strike. The resulting boom was much quieter.

"Huh," John said looking out the window, "sounds like the storm is moving on."

Sherlock shook his head, "The windows are well insulated and the rest of room is sound absorbent. My grandfather wanted the library to be a place of quiet contemplation and study. During rainstorms as a child, I'd hide out in here until they blew over."

"How many storms lasted longer than a couple of hours?" John asked, looking around him for the first time.

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it. "Only a handful, and of those handful, only two lasted longer than the night," he admitted shyly.

"I just have the _worst_ luck, don't I?" John groused.

The publicist merely shrugged.

John heaved out a massive sigh. "Right, if I'm going to survive this, I'm going to need a few things. First, where is the nearest bathroom?"

When Sherlock pointed to a door on the other side of the room, John hobbled to it and opened it to reveal it was indeed a bathroom.

"Brilliant," John said. "Where are the spare toothbrushes kept?"

"Top drawer on the left side of the vanity," Sherlock mumbled from underneath the blanket.

John let out a sound of discovery as he found them. "Right, I'm going to go grab the things you're letting me borrow–"

"My brother-in-law is letting you borrow," Sherlock said, cutting him off.

John just waved him off, "I'll grab the things I'm borrowing and bring them in here."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "We do have guest rooms upstrairs you can stay in, instead of hanging out here with me."

John blinked. "Nothing against your hospitality, I don't think I'd be able to sleep much in a strange house with you all the way down here. It's a..." he paused, looking for the right word. "It's a PTSD thing, if I'm honest. I'm pretty sure I'd have a panic attack if I did that."

Sherlock nodded.

"Right, so after I bring the clothes in here, the next step is setting this place up like for a sleepover," John explained.

At Sherlock's confused expression, he asked, "What? You've never had a sleepover before?"

"I've slept over at my boyfriend's flat before, but I doubt that's what you mean here," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"Yeah...no," John replied. "It's where a group of boys would get together overnight and play games, watch movies, binge on fizzy drinks, candy and junk food. Sometimes if the weather was nice enough, it would be outside in a tent."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "That sounds dreadful."

John laughed, "It was, yeah. What? You didn't do that kind of shit with your mates as a kid?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That would require having 'mates' to begin with."

John's brain stuttered to a stop for a moment and then kicked into high gear.

"I don't suppose there would be any junk food like that in this house, would there?"

"Well...I do know where my brother keeps the secret stash of goodies for when he gets depressed about his diet and needs to indulge," Sherlock murmured into his duvet fortress.

"So we get to be pirates, too?" John asked with a giggle. "This really _is_ shaping up to be quite the sleepover."

He looked around and found some loose sheets of paper and a pen.

"Alrighty, Capt Holmes," John said mimicking a pirate accent. "If Imma gonna go get the booty, Imma need a map." He handed the papers and pen to the other man.

"You are absolutely ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed, but John thought he caught the barest hint of a smile as the publicist drew up the map.

"Also, where's the linen closet so I can grab pillows and blankets for the pair of us?" John asked.

"You do realize that after a couple of nights sleeping on the floor, you are going to be stiff and cranky beyond measure, don't you?" Sherlock asked, as he added the linen closet to his map.

It was John's turn to scoff. "You do realize that sometimes cots were a luxury item in the army and sleeping on the ground was pretty much a given, don't you? And trust me, a level floor with lots of blankets and pillows is going to feel like a dream."

Sherlock blushed and handed John his map.

It took John several trips to get everything he needed with his cane and all, but asking Sherlock was out of the question.

And whenever John felt like telling the other man to get off his arse and help, thunder would rock the house and Sherlock would whimper. John would sigh and go back to collecting "treasures" for them.

Once after John nearly dumped a large amount of pillows on the floor, Sherlock got up to help.

"I could help," the taller man muttered.

"As a former doctor, I can't risk you having a panic attack where I can't find you. This is tedious, but it's better than the alternative," John explained.

"I could follow you around and carry things for you," Sherlock replied.

Just then a rather large boom shook the house enough to make the chandeliers shudder and Sherlock dropped to his knees to cover his ears.

John knelt next to him, placing the cane on the ground gingerly. "Hey, hey, it's all right."

Sherlock just shook his head.

"You must despise me at this point, and guess what? At least three more days of this!" Sherlock gestured to himself. "Catering to the whims of your worst enemy is enough to drive anyone mad."

John grabbed Sherlock's hands and began to rubbing circles into his wrists.

"You're not my worst enemy," John said softly. "That honor goes to the rat bastard, who in one fell swoop of a bullet, ended my military and medical career. You don't even make my top five."

Sherlock started and then giggled. The giggle turned into a laugh, which got John laughing too.

"I'm going to have to try harder," Sherlock said, once he could breathe again.

"That was not a challenge, you git," John said, grabbing his cane. He stood up and finished gathering their supplies for the next week.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:Hello! Sorry this took sooooo long (it's been a week lol!) I finished it on Wednesday but both me and my beta were busy until tonight. **

**A little bit of the boys getting to know each other. **

**Also I have chapter seven done and will be getting that one edited soon. Hopefully in the next day or so. And eight is on the pipeline. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John surveyed his haul and nodded. There was just one thing missing. Games.

"You know, I don't think I've seen a single game in any of the places I've checked while I was looking for you," he pondered out loud. "Most people have at least a pack of cards out or something."

Sherlock coughed discreetly. "I believe Mycroft keeps the games in his study."

John thought it was a strange place for games, but decided not to comment. He went back to the study to find those elusive games.

He opened the door and turned on the lights, or rather with the shit generator, light. The study was pretty much as John remembered it, not a place that one would expect to store games. It was a quiet, austere place that felt more like a haven from fun, than one where laughter and enjoyment could be found.

And as such, John immediately discounted the desk. That was for files and things of that nature. He went to the side bar first. But it was stocked neatly with bottles of the best whiskeys, wines, and other spirits. And judging from the labels, this was even better than the stuff Mycroft had put out for him.

He stood up with the help of his cane and moved to the doors under the bookshelves. But they only held what looked to be photo albums. And as tempted as John was to see what Sherlock and Mycroft looked like in their youth, that felt like too much of an invasion of privacy.

He closed the doors and again struggled to his feet. He really should have asked Sherlock exactly where they were. He was about to give up when he spotted a green trunk by the door. He went over and opened it.

"Ah ha!" John cried, finding the games at last. He grabbed a couple of his old school favorites and a pack of cards (first double-checking they weren't for pinochle or something like that) to take back to Sherlock.

The one game that was surprisingly absent was Cluedo. John thought that game was mandatory for every English household. He shrugged and took his finds back to the library.

"All right," John said, opening the door to the library, "I think we're set, for tonight anyway."

"What took you so long?" Sherlock whined from under his covers.

John rolled his eyes. "Well, if someone had thought to tell me where the games were, it might have not taken so long."

Sherlock looked up sheepishly and then ducked his head to hide his blush. He murmured something.

"What was that?" John asked, setting the games down on a nearby table.

Sherlock lifted his head out the duvet and said a little louder, "I didn't know where they were kept."

"But you knew they were in Mycroft's study?" John questioned.

The publicist shrugged. "It was the only place I hadn't looked."

"You were looking for them?" John asked. This conversation was getting more and more curious the longer it went on.

Sherlock coughed. "I may have destroyed Cluedo after the first time I played, and the rest of the games were hidden, only to be brought out when I was in town."

John's eyebrows shot up. "You didn't!" Sherlock ducked his head in shame. "Oh my God, you did. Why?"

Sherlock lifted his head, jaw tight, "The rules are wrong. The only person who could have done it was the victim, Dr Black."

John frowned. "But why would he kill himself?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense, he framed one of his guests. Why else would the player not know he is the murderer?"

John blinked. Okay, that actually made more sense than it should have.

"So where did my brother hide the games?" Sherlock asked, breaking into John's reverie. "I'm assuming the cabinets under the bookshelves."

John shook his head. "Nope, why did you think they were there?"

"Mycroft said that's where the family albums were, I just assumed he was lying. I would have burned the damn things," Sherlock explained. Lightning flashed and Sherlock buried his head in the duvet in time for the thunder to boom.

"Wasn't lying apparently, I found them in a green trunk by the door," John said calmly, his voice warm and soothing.

"I thought that was filled with old detritus; broken childhood toys, torn and falling apart books, trophies and ribbons for things no longer cared about," Sherlock murmured. "Things like that."

John blinked slowly. To be fair, that was usually what was kept in old trunks. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told you where they were. Won't Mycroft be upset?"

"No more upset than about us raiding the kitchen and his sweetie stash," Sherlock reminded him.

John laughed. "Fair enough."

He went to the table and picked up a pack of cards. "Poker?"

"Not unless you want to be betting with lollies and Mars bars," Sherlock replied.

John looked down at the pile of treats and nodded. Betting those would have felt too much like gambling and he'd been actively trying to avoid that since he'd been home. When Sherlock had brought up gambling as a bad habit to give Hamish, the hero of his book, it had struck a nerve.

"Right, how about Go Fish instead?" he asked after the moment of silence had stretched between them for too long.

"You'll lose," Sherlock said with a grin.

"You're on!" John said, raising up for the challenge.

Twenty minutes later...

"How in the hell are you beating me _every time_?" John groused as Sherlock asked for aces, of which John had all three remaining.

"Good memory," Sherlock replied. "Mainly with what you ask for but also...a teensy bit of card counting."

John's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell. It's a good thing we didn't play poker."

Sherlock grinned, "Especially since your tell is that you do this funny little nose wrinkle when you've gotten something good."

John's head rocked back and he snarled, "I do not!"

Sherlock giggled. "Yes, you do. It's...endearing."

John blushed. "Now you're taking the piss, aren't you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it with a snap. "I think I'll go find something to read." He got up, and wrapping the duvet around his head, strolled along the shelves.

John heaved out a sigh. Sherlock wasn't a mate that he could tease and rib good-naturedly. This was someone who up until...he looked at his watch...two hours ago he had been quite antagonistic with. John watched as Sherlock ran his fingers along the spines of well-worn and well-read books. He paused, stroking a particular book's spine before moving on.

The writer in John thought Sherlock looked rather like a maiden from those ridiculous romance novels. "Abandoned by her lover, she seeks the solace of her father's library, to drown herself in the tales of honorable men."

After watching Sherlock wander through the library without choosing a single novel to read, John came to a sad conclusion.

"You think I'm going to mock you about which book you're about to choose, don't you?" John asked, putting his hand on his chin.

Sherlock jumped and whirled around. When John could see his face, he looked like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"You can read whatever the hell you want," John continued. "This is your house, and I would be a shit guest if I made fun of anything you enjoyed."

Sherlock bit his lower lip and walked to the first book he had stopped at. He pulled it off the shelf and cradled it to his chest. He shuffled over to John and gingerly handed it over.

"This one is my favorite," Sherlock said softly.

John took it and turned the book over. "Treasure Island" was embossed on the forest green cover in faded gold lettering.

"Pirates," John said with a grin. "I should have known. One of my favorites, too."

Sherlock blushed. "If I can get lost in doing something, reading, writing, beating you at Go Fish! It helps block out the thunder and I'm not so afraid."

"Music doesn't help?" John asked, handing the book back to the publicist.

Sherlock took the book and ran fingers on the well-worn spine. "Not really, I've tried all sorts but it makes...I don't know how to put this into words. It's not better, it's not worse, but it's like an added layer to the fear, making it different somehow."

"Pardon me for saying so, but have _you _tried talking to a therapist?" John asked.

"The last two I spoke to called me a sociopath with serial killer tendencies," Sherlock said in all seriousness.

"They what?" John asked in horror.

Sherlock shrugged. "Something about childhood trauma making me ripe for a life of crime and that it was only a matter of time before I snapped."

"Explains why you hate therapists," John replied. "Well, you get to reading that, I'll find other things to do with my time."

"Are you sure I'm not being a burden?" Sherlock asked. "I should be a better host."

"As long as the lightning and thunder is going on out there, it's best if you focus on you," John murmured.

They munched on goodies and leftovers from the lunch, but mostly stayed in their separate corners for the rest of the evening.

When it became time for bed, Sherlock looked skeptically at the pillow fort John had made.

"That thing is going to fall and smother us in our sleep," he said, deadpan.

John grinned. "Nah, it'll be fine. Just get in, will you."

He crawled into the fort on his side and laid down. Sherlock stared at it for a moment and then decided what the hell, and crawled in after him.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: ****I told you I had the next chapter done. I thought about waiting a couple of days to post it, but...nah!**

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to the smell of grilled bacon and eggs. He followed his nose to the kitchen where John was making breakfast.

"Hey," John greeted. "You're awake. I was just going to let you sleep. The thunder doesn't seem to worry you if you're sleeping."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He didn't usually sleep that deeply or that well, regardless of where he was.

"Coffee?" Sherlock mumbled.

John laughed. He pointed to the coffee machine that was filled to the brim with Mycroft's best dark roast.

"I'm glad your brother had some pre-ground stuff, otherwise there wouldn't _be_ any coffee," he told Sherlock as he added a couple more eggs to the pan.

Sherlock got a cup down and began to fill it. "The coffee grinder too much for you?"

"Too loud," John reasoned.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and nodded. "Mycroft always grinds some for his husband because the man doesn't know how to use the machine."

John glanced over at the grinder and pursed his lips, "I can see that."

"He likes to brag that he can do just fine in the kitchen without fancy gadgets, thank you very much," Sherlock mocked.

John laughed. "Likes to cook then, your brother-in-law?"

Sherlock nodded and accepted the eggs John handed him with a hum of thanks.

"I can get out more bacon if you want some," John said, sitting down at the table with his own plate.

"This is fine," Sherlock said, "I usually don't have much for breakfast."

John chuckled. "I figured the bloke that brings two strawberry scones each morning to the bookstore and lets Mrs Hudson have both was a breakfast lightweight."

Sherlock blushed and began to poke at his breakfast. "What's on the agenda today?"

"More games, I guess," John replied. "Unless you know of something else we can do in this massive house with minimal power."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "At least the thunderstorm has passed, even if the rain hasn't."

John tilted his ear up and then nodded. He could hear the pelting of the rain beating heavily on the roof and windows, but there wasn't a flash of light or even a low rumble.

"That's good," John agreed. "I'll still probably stay in the library for sleep though."

Sherlock nodded.

"Any other good books in your brother's library?" John asked around a mouthful of food.

"It's mostly classic literature, a few sci-fi novels, but old school. Jules Verne and Mary Shelly."

"Would it be all right if I borrowed a book or two while I was here?"

Sherlock waved his hand non-nonchalant. "Just make sure you put them back where you found them."

John grinned, "I can't guarantee that." He winked at Sherlock and got up to put his dishes in the sink.

Sherlock laughed.

* * *

John decided to take up Sherlock on his offer to borrow a book from the library during one of the times the publicist took one of his long showers.

Sherlock hadn't been lying about the taste of books that Mycroft had, they were all old literature or golden age sci-fi. But he was bound and determined to find something from the last twenty years.

And then he found it. An honest to God fantasy novel. "Griffin's Steps" by William Scott. He read the back and it looked interesting. So he took it with him to one of the big fluffy armchairs and settled in for what looked to be a really good read.

He was about two-thirds of the way through the book when there came a strangled cry, and Sherlock snatched the book out of his hands.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded hotly.

John opened his mouth to snap back, but furrowed his eyebrows instead when saw that Sherlock was clutching the book to his chest.

"Here, in the library," John explained. "You said I could read anything I found on the shelves to my liking. This was most definitely to my liking."

Sherlock looked at the book and then back at John and said skeptically, "You liked it? No one _likes_ this book."

"It was really good," John defended.

"You're lying," Sherlock bit out.

"Why would I lie about that?" John was becoming more and more confused.

"Like you don't know _I_ wrote it," Sherlock sneered.

"Wait," John said, his brain finally catching up, "_that's_ your book?"

Sherlock frowned. "It was the biggest news piece for nearly six months ten years ago, you would have had to have been living under a rock not to have heard of 'Griffin's Steps'."

"Or, you know, deployed overseas to Afghanistan," John said dryly.

"Oh," Sherlock said softly. "So you honestly don't know?"

"Nope," John replied. "So why don't you tell me about it?"

Sherlock flopped in a nearby chair and looked at John, sizing him up. "You didn't make fun of my fear of thunder, so I guess I can trust you with this..."

John smiled encouragingly.

"I was about eighteen when it was published," Sherlock began.

"Holy hell, that's young," John said. He thought back to Mike's comments about the book being juvenile and written by a 'rich white boy', but he didn't think Mike had been talking about an _actual_ kid. "Mike told me that it was straight up hated. But to attack someone who is still a kid is monstrous."

Sherlock blushed. "So Mike told you about that, huh?"

John shrugged. "He told me stop being an arse to you because of what happened with your book, but didn't give a lot of details, and I really didn't ask for any."

"They weren't kind, and when it came out that William Scott was Sherlock Holmes it became a shitstorm," Sherlock said.

"So why William Scott?" John asked.

"My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes," the publicist replied. "It was just the easiest."

"Well, if it's okay with you, I'd like to finish it," John said, holding out his hand for the book.

"Where are you at?" Sherlock asked, staring at the outstretched hand with apprehension.

"Rhys just kissed Ajay," John replied. "My favorite bit so far."

"Why?" Sherlock couldn't keep the look of confusion off his face. It was _his_ favorite part of the book, but wanted to know why it was John's.

"That has got to be the most accurate first kiss I've ever read," John explained. "It reminded me of my first kiss with a boy and that was incredible."

"I just described how I felt when I kissed the boy who went on to become my first and well...if I'm honest, last boyfriend," Sherlock said with a sad smile.

"Married or..." John knew he should keep his mouth shut but he couldn't.

Sherlock barked out a bitter laugh, "No, he broke my heart."

"Bastard," John said with a smile.

"Thank you." Sherlock looked at the book and then handed it back to John. "Just be forewarned. It ends with a bit of a cliffhanger."

John looked down at the book in shock. "No way!"

"It was my editor's idea, he thought it was good enough for a whole trilogy," Sherlock said apologetically.

John licked his lips. "I don't suppose you've _written _the sequels..."

Sherlock's laugh was far more genuine this time. "I have both books fully written and edited on a thumb drive in a picture frame in my office. And if I ever get the itch to try writing again, I look at it or if I'm away from home I just go to any book review site and read the reviews for 'Griffin's Steps'."

"But they must be so old by now, why dredge that back up?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. He pulled out his phone and did a couple of things on it before handing it to John.

John put the book on his lap as he read the reviews. "Holy shit! That was from this morning. Where are they getting the book to read it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Secondhand booksellers, auction sites, friends...who knows. But they get their little grubby paws on it, and they want to blast me for daring to write a gay love story."

"Well," John said, "despite its cliffhanger ending, I still want to finish it. Though, I might kill you for it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That would be tremendously ambitious of you."

"I was in the army," John reminded him.

"You were a doctor," Sherlock sparred.

"I had bad days," John informed him. They stared at each other for a moment and then they both broke down and laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Yay! Another chapter. I was gonna wait until Friday to edit this chapter because I got off work late today, but my beta Old Ping Hai convinced me that I could get it done tonight. So give her a big thanks for this chapter getting to you two days before I had planned.**

* * *

It would be nice to say that they became best friends after that, but they were two men stuck in a singular location with limited places to go and cool off. So to say tempers still flared on occasion would be an understatement.

But it wasn't all bad, John finally got an answer to a question that had been plaguing him since he started working at 221Books.

"Okay," John began, after they had finished dinner on the third night. They had settled in to the library to play chess. "I have to ask, how did you and Mrs Hudson become so close?"

Sherlock chuckled and moved his piece. He placed his head in his hand, one finger on his temple. "Another one of those things everyone knows, but you missed out by being overseas, I'd imagine."

"Oh really?" John asked, leaning forward. "Must have been quite the tale. Go on, wordsmith. You want to tell me, and I intend to be your captive audience." He moved his queen.

Sherlock smiled and immediately took the queen. "Are you at all familiar with the Hilda Brandt spy novels?"

John shook his head. "I'm not really a fan of spy novels. Met too many real spooks to enjoy them. Now, I like a good James Bond movie or two, but that's more for the action than for anything else." He tried moving another piece only to have Sherlock immediately take that one too.

Sherlock nodded. "When they were first published, they were credited to Frank Hudson, Mrs Hudson's then husband."

"I'm guessing they were hers and not his?" John muttered. He stared at the board in frustration. He took one of Sherlock's pieces and in the next move John's king was placed in check.

"Right in one. But they weren't the only stories he had stolen from her, he had been stealing her work from before they got married," Sherlock explained.

"Shit," John said, shaking his head. He moved his king out of check. "When did she find out?"

"About five years ago," Sherlock replied. "She knew objectively that her husband 'wrote' books, but she had never seen any of them. Check and mate."

"How the hell did he get away with that?" John growled, throwing himself back into his chair.

"He told her that they were gory slasher horror novels and that she wouldn't like them," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "The man was a real piece of work." He began to set up the board again.

"Certainly sounds like it," John agreed. "How did you get involved?" He put his arm on the back of the chair and propped his head on his fist.

"She tried to get one of her stories published and was accused of plagiarism, by Frank's editor, no less," Sherlock snarled. "How that woman still works in this industry I'll never know, but both she and the head publicist for Shercroft Publishing at the time doubled down, insisting that Mrs Hudson was the thief and not Frank." He motioned for John to go first, but John shook his head.

"Did they know the truth?" he asked with a frown.

"Oh yes, they were both in on it," Sherlock replied, moving the white pawn forward. "So Mrs Hudson tried to go to the police, a solicitor, anyone at the company who would believe her, but they cleverly blocked her at every turn."

"Which meant Mycroft didn't know about it either, I'm willing to bet," John said, moving his pawn to meet Sherlock's.

"He was livid when he found out, fired both of them on the spot. But she had to get through them first," Sherlock explained. He moved another piece. "After the failure with my book and after winning gold at the Olympics, I was at loose ends. So Mycroft decided to have me intern in a couple different departments, see if there was anything I might be interested in."

John nodded and moved his piece. "What made you decide on head publicist? The thing with Mrs Hudson?"

"That, and the head publicist was actually incompetent," Sherlock said with a grin. "He was out my first day as intern to his office and Mrs Hudson came in."

"Lucky her," John murmured. They continued to play, but Sherlock beat him yet again.

Sherlock blushed. "She had proof and I took that proof to Mycroft."

"Three cheers for you then," John said, smiling.

"Got her a solicitor that would listen, sued the pants off Frank, and she divorced him soon after," the publicist concluded.

"And then she used those funds to buy a bookshop, and the rest, as they say, is history," John said.

"She also uses those 'funds', as you called them, to help people in situations similar to hers get the justice they deserve," Sherlock explained.

"She likes rescuing people, doesn't she?" John asked softly. "Heaven knows she saved me." He looked up at Sherlock and cocked his head to the side. "And I guess I owe you my thanks, too, because if you hadn't believed her...God knows where I'd be."

Sherlock just waved him off, but John couldn't help the swell of gratitude that welled in his chest. Mike was right, there was much more to Sherlock than met the eye.

"Also, chess is another game I am _never _playing with you again," John growled, putting away the game.

Sherlock just grinned.

* * *

They were in the middle of an argument about Sherlock's card counting when it happened.

"Stop card counting, if it's illegal in Las Vegas, it's against the rules," John growled.

"We live in England, not America," Sherlock replied haughtily.

"Doesn't make it any less against the rules," John contested.

"Just because you can't doesn't mean that I shouldn't be able to use all the abilities at my disposal to win," Sherlock sneered.

John grabbed his hair, "Oh my God! I just want to wrap my hands around your neck–"

Just then there was a low buzz and all the lights came on.

"What?" John asked, interrupting himself. "What just happened?"

"It appears that the rain has stopped and they have restored power to the grid," Sherlock replied, looking up at the ceiling.

"When–" John asked, but was cut off by the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing.

The publicist answered it. He listened to the other person on the phone and nodded and hummed in response.

"Thank you very much," Sherlock said to the person on the other end of the line. He rang off and turned back to John. "They've managed to get power back to everyone in town and are working on getting the roads cleared. But the police inspector who called told me that Mycroft was sending a helicopter later this evening to get us home sooner, because they aren't sure how long it will take."

"That's wonderful," John breathed. "To be back home, wearing my own clothes, using my own toothbrush, and sleeping in my own bed..."

"And I'm sure Mrs Hudson would like her employee back as well," Sherlock said with a grin.

"I'm sure she would," John agreed. "Not that this hasn't been fun and all, but it's going to be nice to have time to myself."

Sherlock chuckled. "I know what you mean."

John got dressed in his own things and grabbed his phone and the bag that he had brought with him. He stood by Sherlock on the helipad watching the helicopter land.

"I'll see you tomorrow at 221Books, right?" John found himself asking.

Sherlock shook his head. "I have so much work I have to catch up on, I'll be living in the office for the next couple of days."

"The life of a busy publicist, then," John said with a sad smile.

"And graphic designer," Sherlock admitted. "I can't stand it when book covers get it wrong, so for certain clientele I'll design the paperback and dust covers for their books, and I sign off on the covers of all our other books from our in-house graphic designers."

"Wow," John replied, "two jobs. You really will be living at the office for a while."

"But I'll come as soon as I can," Sherlock assured him.

"Yeah," John said. The helicopter landed and they got on. They were quiet for the entire trip home, lost in their thoughts.

After the helicopter set down in London, they bid each other goodbye.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:Hello! Third chapter this week! Aren't you the lucky devils? Not much John in this chapter, just a bit at the end.**

**But don't let hat scare you off, it's brother bonding time. :D**

* * *

It had been two weeks since he had last seen or spoken to John, and he was cursing himself for _not _getting John's number before they parted.

And now he was starting to worry that John might think he was avoiding the bookshop, and by extension, John himself.

But apparently neither of the departments he headed could function without him. The artist who had been hired to do all the covers for Molly Hooper's books had quit. Sherlock had spent two long days just trying to get the artist to agree to new terms to at least finish the book series.

One of the older books in the company's catelogue was being turned into a TV series by the BBC, and Sherlock was tasked with updating the covers of the book. Unfortunately the proofs that they sent were the wrong size and he was forced to spend an afternoon chasing down the right person to get him the size he needed.

And these were just the major fires he had to put out, there were many minor flare-ups that he had to deal with on top of his own work. He hadn't had time to breathe, and sleep was a distant memory; these days he lived on caffeine and nicotine patches.

Sherlock buried his head in his hands. He wanted to text John (or considering how desperate he felt, actually call him to hear his voice). But he didn't have the former doctor's number and he would impale himself on his letter opener before he asked Mrs Hudson for it. She would tease him about asking, and he couldn't live with her gentle ribbing.

Sherlock was about to tear his hair out when his phone rang. He picked it up and frowned at the name on the caller ID.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted warily. He hadn't heard anything from his brother regarding John's ill-fated meeting with Sherlock and whether Mycroft had heard back from John. Oh, they had exchanged pleasantries, and Mycroft had yelled at him for the disaster Sherlock and John had made of the house, but not what he wanted to hear. And of course Sherlock daren't ask Mycroft directly, because unlike Mrs Hudson's, the teasing would _not_ be gentle ribbing.

"Hello, brother mine," Mycroft replied warmly. "You must have made quite the impression on John Watson."

Sherlock's heart plummeted to his stomach. He feared the worst. "Oh?" He had tried for nonchalant but it came out an undignified squeak.

Mycroft chuckled. "Oh yes. He turned in his edited manuscript earlier this week for reconsideration and today accepted a book contract from us."

Sherlock blinked, stunned. John Watson had done what now? "That's wonderful news."

"Indeed," Mycroft purred, a smirk coloring his tone. "Though considering you said the meeting went badly, I wasn't expecting him to contact us at all. To say it came as a complete surprise would be an understatement."

Sherlock coughed. "A lot of things happened after the meeting that could have changed his mind."

"Oh?" Mycroft asked. "I don't believe you mentioned any of that the half-dozen times we've spoken since."

The younger Holmes gulped. "He helped me get through the thunderstorms, he made sure I was fed and that I could sleep. He went above and beyond the bounds of human decency."

"Well, then," Mycroft said, astonished. "I'm grateful to him."

Sherlock took a deep breath and whispered into the phone, "He liked my book."

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, unsure he had heard his brother correctly.

"I didn't know you kept a copy of my book in the library," Sherlock hedged.

Ah. So that's what happened. "Of course, I do, Lockie," he murmured. "Is that how he discovered it, then?"

Sherlock worked his throat, trying not to cry. "He didn't know it was mine at first, but finding that out didn't change his mind. And-and he liked the kiss, too."

The true test of whether people actually liked the book or were just pretending to so they could suck up to Sherlock was what they felt about the two main characters kissing. And Sherlock (or Mycroft for that matter) had only met a handful of people who actually liked that scene.

"Well, that is marvelous," Mycroft replied. "Did the two of you leave on good terms, then?"

Sherlock shrugged even though Mycroft couldn't see him, "Better terms than that meeting should have allowed for, certainly, but I'm not sure it could be counted as _good_. I honestly don't know how he felt." He winced. He was starting to sound like a Jane Austen heroine.

And much to his chagrin, his brother picked up on that aspect. But then it was his brother after all, and no one knew him better.

"Ahh," Mycroft said with a soft smile that Sherlock could practically _feel._

Sherlock growled, "Don't read too much into that. We are acquaintances at best."

"Of course, brother mine," Mycroft agreed too quickly. "And how goes the marketing for Miss Hooper's foray into the magical world of television?"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, "without much to go on other than the BBC greenlighting production, there really isn't much to do. I've had my plate filled with other, meatier issues since my return."

"Ah, of course," Mycroft replied. "I'm glad one of us is creative. I simply don't have the head at all for making things appeal to a wide range of people."

Sherlock scoffed. "And yet you can do it with books."

"I simply know a good story when I see one," Mycroft countered.

"And yet, between the two of us and your darling husband, my book was still a critical and commercial failure," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Your book was fine, Lockie," Mycroft admonished. "It was 2010, for God's sake. Who knew the public would still be so adverse to a small kiss between two boys?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I really don't want to get into it today. I'll talk to you later, all right?"

Mycroft sighed. "Of course, brother mine." And he rang off.

Sherlock let the phone drop on his desk with a thud and buried his head in his hands. He ran his fingers over his face and let out a deep sigh. But before he could wallow in his misery, a shrill chirp sounded from his phone.

Sherlock picked the phone back up and checked the notification. It was an email from his brother. He opened it up; in it was all the marketing information for John's book, which included (to his chagrin or elation he wasn't sure) all of John's contact information. Including his email and phone number. He didn't know whether to kill Mycroft or send him flowers in thanks.

He decided the safest option was to ignore the interfering git. He put John's contact information into his phone and then tapped the device against his bottom lip.

He began composing a text message:

"Hello, this is Sherlock. I do hope you'll forgive me if I'm being presumptuous, but Mycroft sent me your contact information and I wanted to let you know that my business has kept me away from the bookshop longer than I anticipated. I didn't want you to think that I had been avoiding you or the shop since our return to London -SH"

He read and reread the message before he hit send. And then came the part he detested most of all, the waiting for a reply.

A reply came within minutes of Sherlock's message's departure. And the whole time the publicist sat in panic, almost typing out another text message apologizing for his error in judgement, but each time he would chicken out.

"Hey, Sherlock. I'm glad you got my number. I was seconds away from begging Mrs Hudson for it. -JHW"

Sherlock stared at the phone in shock. John wanted _his_ number? He didn't know how to reply to that, but thankfully he was saved from making a fool of himself by another incoming message.

"So...that cliffhanger was a doozie all right. When can I get the next one? -JHW"

Sherlock laughed. "I'm glad you liked it. I don't think I've met anyone in a long time who actually enjoyed my book for what it was meant to be. -SH"

"It was amazing and people can piss off. -JHW"

Sherlock felt a warmth spread out from his chest that left him feeling more than a little happy.

"Thank you. -SH"

"No problem. -JHW"

Sherlock spent the rest of the day humming happily to himself, a small smile on his face.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey oh! Firstly I want to apologize for the error with the last chapter. I changed it twice and it STILL kept reverting back to chapter 7. I nearly cried. So if you haven't read that one yet, go ahead. It is fixed now. **

**Also I wanted to give a shout out to the amazing Sweetmarly who has commented diligently on each chapter ******(and because I'm an idiot and forgot to mention it last chapter)**. Your comments were delightful and made me sooo happy. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story as much as you enjoyed the first eight. **

**Another chapter for lovely people! John's back and we've got a little bit of surprise for him.**

**It's gonna be fun!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Mycroft called his husband as soon as he got off the phone with Sherlock.

"Hello, darling," he greeted warmly.

"Hey, Myc," the editor murmured. "Writers are among the biggest divas I've ever encountered, I swear to God."

"Anyone in particular?" Mycroft asked fondly.

"The whole lot of them, if I'm honest," his husband grumbled. "Egos get in the way of a good story."

"It's a give and take, dearest. You know that," Mycroft replied soothingly.

The other man let out a sigh. "How are things going with you?"

Mycroft grinned. "I learned something new about our latest new author."

The editor's interest was piqued. "Oh? That soldier fellow who stayed out at Musgrove and borrowed some of my things?"

"That's the one," Mycroft confirmed. "Apparently he found Lockie's book."

"Oh shite!" the man groaned. "Sherlock must be shattered."

"He liked it," Mycroft said sotto voce.

"Honestly? You aren't taking the mickey on me, are ya?" he asked, surprised.

"Well, at least Sherlock was in earnest when he told me," Mycroft admitted.

"And he's unlikely to joke about that sort of thing," the editor agreed. "Let me guess, Sherlock's half-way in love with him already?"

Mycroft chuckled. "On his way, certainly."

"I want to be this John Watson fellow's editor," his husband insisted.

"If you want to meet him, there are other, better ways," Mycroft said with a chuckle.

"Then what do you suggest?" the other man asked.

"When was the last time you visited Mrs Hudson's shop?" Mycroft inquired, nonchalant.

He could almost feel his husband's grin on the other line, "Ages, I am clearly due for a visit."

They both chuckled.

* * *

John looked up when the bell above the door tinkled. A distinguished older gentleman came in, looking around.

"Hello and welcome to 221Books. I'm John, just let me know if you need anything," John greeted and then went back to stocking shelves.

He could feel the man's eyes on him, and he had a feeling that he had been found wanting. He had a couple of COs that could make him feel like that; this man didn't scream military, though.

The man gave up his assessing stare and went to wander through the aisles of books. But that itch between John's shoulder blades that said someone was watching didn't go away.

The army taught him a lot of things; one of them happened to be to face conflict head on when possible, so John walked up to the customer. "Is there anything I can help you find?"

The man chuckled. "Not really, just checking up on book trends. I really can't sit through a book without pulling out one of these," he said, producing a red felt-tip pen.

"So you're an editor?" John asked, clamping his jaw around telling this man that he had written a book. Shercroft was going to provide him an editor, and telling this complete stranger he was going to be published felt too much like bragging.

"Yep," the customer replied, popping the "P".

"I didn't know the red pen was still a thing, I thought it would be all digitized at this point," John admitted.

The man chuckled. "Depends on the client, some do better seeing it in physical form. Others have to have it done in an email so they can copy/paste the corrections, others still have to have it fed to them fix upon fix, because they can only focus on one thing at a time."

"Those people must be so annoying," John said, referring the latter.

The editor shrugged. "I don't think so. I mean, yeah, it would be faster if they could do it themselves. But not everyone's brain works the same, and they deserve to have their stories published same as anyone."

John ducked his head. "Sorry–" he began but was cut off by Mrs Hudson shrieking and launching herself at the customer.

John blinked in shock as the customer swung Mrs Hudson around.

"Oh, sweetheart," Mrs Hudson cooed when he put her down. "I haven't seen you in ages! Let me look at you." She held him at arm's length to give him a once over. "You are more handsome than before, you fox!"

The customer laughed. "Don't tell Mycroft, you know jealous he gets."

"You know Mycroft?" John boggled.

The editor laughed. "I certainly hope so, I'm married to him."

"Oh!" John said. "You're Sherlock's brother-in-law!"

"In the flesh," Mr Holmes said with a grin.

"Thank you for the clothes, Mr Holmes," John said earnestly. "I don't know what I would have done if I had to spend that week in the same kit."

Mr Holmes smiled. "You're welcome, I'm glad they got put to use, if I'm honest. I've gained some weight and I know at my age, it's going to take a miracle for that come off."

Mrs Hudson shushed him.

"I know how that goes," John agreed. "Now that I'm out of the army, I worry I'll just pack on the pounds."

Mr Holmes cocked his head to the side. "I would have never pegged you for an army man, what division were you in?"

"Mostly RAMC, but when I was studying for my medical degree, I was in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers," John explained.

"So what made you decide to swap the army for Mrs Hudson's indomitable bookshop?"

"Stop it!" Mrs Hudson protested. "You make it sound like I'm days away from folding."

Mr Holmes chuckled.

John coughed. "I got invalided out, ruined my medical and military career."

Mr Holmes cocked his head. "Is the reason for the..." he trailed off, waving a hand at John's old and threadbare clothes.

John blushed. "I was in a bad place when I got home, and I just haven't had the desire or a reason to buy new things," he admitted.

"I'm not judging," Mr Holmes rushed to assure him. "A couple of the authors I edit for suffer from depression, anxiety, or even worse things like OCD or agoraphobia."

"Wow," John said. "I guess writers come in all sorts, don't they?"

"They certainly do," Mr Holmes agreed.

Another customer came in and John had to attend to them. By the time John was finished, Mr Holmes had gone.

* * *

Mr Holmes called up Mycroft the second he left the shop.

"Hey, love," Mycroft greeted.

"I think I know what Sherlock sees in this bloke," the editor said cheerfully.

"Oh?"

Mr Holmes threw his head back and laughed. "Yeah, and I _still_ want to be his editor."

* * *

John had never worked with someone about his stories and could only remember all the times that he had heard about writers having to fight for scenes because the editor didn't think they were necessary to the plot. He set his cane in the crook of his elbow so that he could wipe his hands on his jeans.

He had made sure to go and buy new clothes for this meeting after Mr Holmes pointed out the shabbiness of his clothing. He just hoped he looked all right. He considered unbuttoning the top button, but he worried it might look unprofessional.

He checked himself in the lift mirrors one last time and then stepped out when the lift landed on his floor. He took his cane in hand and hobbled up to the front desk.

"Hello," John greeted. "I have a two o'clock appointment with Greg Lestrade."

The man, whose name plate declared him to be Gwyn Daffid, smiled up at him. "Of course, Mr Lestrade is waiting for you."

Gwyn leaned forward on his elbows and watched eagerly as John walked up to the door and knocked.

"Come in!" the muffled voice called out.

John looked back at Gwyn, and the PA made a little shooing motion for him to go in.

So John took a deep breath and opened the door.

"How in the hell?" he exclaimed. He turned back to Gwyn, who was trying to hold in his laughter.

"John, come on in," Greg said with a smile.

John stumbled into the office and closed the door behind him. "But I thought your surname was Holmes..."

"That was an assumption on your part," Greg replied with a smile. "I was a well-known editor when I met Mycroft, so I kept the name. I wasn't about to make him take mine, not when his belongs to the biggest publishing family in Great Britain."

John blinked a couple of times, trying to make everything Greg just said compute in his brain.

"So did you come to the bookshop to see Mrs Hudson, or to check me out before you took me on?" John asked, moving to sit down in one of the chairs in front of Greg's desk.

"Oh, neither really," Greg replied. "You see, my husband is a _fantastic _older brother, but when you are seven years older than your sibling, sometimes you come across as more of a father figure than an older brother. So Sherlock talks to me. And oh boy, does he talk about _you_."

"He does?" John felt a warmth spread through his chest. Sherlock and he had been trading text messages and calling each other for the last week. And while John would've said they were almost friends, he didn't know Sherlock had told anyone about him.

"Oh yeah, especially since you liked his book," Greg said, leaning forward on his elbows.

"It's a good book," John replied, frowning.

"I know, I edited it," Greg agreed.

"You did? So you're the one who told him to write the sequels and to leave the first one at a cliffhanger," John growled. "Boy do I have a bone to pick with you!"

Greg laughed, sitting back in his chair. "It _is _a good book. I stand by that. It deserved a million sequels instead of what it got, a bunch of hate."

"It pisses me off. The book had a good plot, better characters with realistic relationships, and good pacing. I don't know why it got such vitriol." John stopped for a moment. He was on his feet. "No, I take that back, it's because not only was the main character gay, but it showed him in a healthy relationship with another boy with all the trappings of a hetero relationship."

"Yep," Greg agreed, popping the "P". "If Ajay or Rhys had been female or if they both were, it wouldn't have gotten the hate it did. If it was written today, it would be a best-seller."

"So why doesn't he write it today?" John mused out loud.

"Oh hell no," Greg said firmly. "You weren't there for the fallout the first time and if that happens again, I don't think he'd survive."

John rubbed his chin. "Except he's not just some kid anymore. He's a well-thought-of publicist with experience in the business and in life. It could be the hit it always should have been."

"John," Greg warned, "I get your enthusiasm. I do. But it could seriously backfire."

"But he's been trapped in this tailspin for the last ten years," John argued. "And people are still out there bashing his first book. I'm willing to bet that the only reason he doesn't get hate mail is because the publishing house just tosses it out."

Greg rubbed his face and sighed. He looked up at John and raised an eyebrow. "Do you really need that cane?"

John frowned, "Of course I do. I know the pain is psychosomatic, but it still hurts."

"So why aren't you using it just now?" Greg asked, indicating with his chin to where the cane lay on the floor.

John looked down. He was standing on both feet equally, his hand clenched, his back ram-rod straight. He felt more alive in that moment than he had in months.

"You see, _that_ is why I had to meet you," Greg said. "We got a little off topic when you asked. It wasn't _just _because you liked Sherlock's book. Though that was definitely part of it.

"But look at you, John. You have fixed your own limp in defense of a man you didn't like and a book everyone hated. It's that trait as a writer that I want to cultivate. And honestly, if you'll still have me, I would like to get started as soon as possible."

John sat down on the chair hard. He had fixed his own limp, hadn't he? Well, maybe not entirely on his own. Sherlock over the course of that week had finally given him something outward to focus on. Even his writing was inward, a reflection of his injury. But Sherlock Holmes had changed all that.

"Yeah," John agreed. "I'd like that."

Greg started going over how the process would work, what his deadlines would be, what the average number of drafts was, how and when to stick up for certain things.

And John soaked it all up.

* * *

**A/N: A minor word; Greg knowing about John BEFORE his conversation with Mycroft is NOT a plot hole. Greg lovingly lied to his husband to give him the reaction he so richly deserved. But I don't like putting "he lied". I think it pulls you out of the story unless it's done for comedic or dramatic effect. **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Yay! Another chapter. And considering I wrote a brand new scene for this chapter, I'm amazed it went as fast as it, to be honest. I've had to arrange things so they make more sense. That is, after all, the benefit of a fully written story over a WIP, I can see the flaws in the overarching plot better and fix them as I type it up.**

**Of course, that means I have to add a couple more scenes to flesh out the newly arranged sections, but I'm sure you guys won't mind more story. Right? ;)**

**And so without further ado, "In which I introduce Irene Adler WAY earlier in the plot than originally planned!"**

**Again, a shout out to Sweetmarly: your reviews are always so lovely and insightful. They really do make my day. I just which there was an easier way to reply to the reviews you leave. But thank you! I cherish each one. **

* * *

John walked out of Greg's office building onto the pavement, twirling his cane. He thought back to his interactions with Sherlock and he knew that he hadn't used it when he was arguing with Sherlock over his book. Or when he quarreled with Sherlock about anything really.

But he felt it went deeper than that. If it was just arguing with Sherlock, then his limp would have been completely gone before his week-long sojourn in Sussex. But it took defending the man and his book to really kick the cane to the curb.

John pulled out his phone and called Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock," John greeted warmly when the publicist picked up almost immediately. "I just got out of my first meeting with my editor."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked. "How did it go?"

"It went really well," John said, ducking his head. "I think we'll work together just fine."

"That's good," Sherlock murmured. "Sometimes it takes a couple of tries to find the right one. Others it's instant connection. And don't be afraid to speak up. They may know the business, but you know your book."

"I won't," John promised. "Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee or a late lunch?"

"That sounds lovely," Sherlock agreed. "Just name the place and time and I'll be there."

"Yeah?" John asked, happily surprised at how quickly Sherlock said yes. "Um...there is this little cafe I know that has the best pasta, it's called Castillo. How about there in about..." John looked at his watch. "An hour?"

"That sounds lovely," Sherlock replied. "I'll see you then."

John rang off and then bit his lip. He looked around briefly and then jumped in the air from joy.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on Greg's open door.

Greg looked up and smiled. "Hey, Sherlock. What's up?"

"I'm cutting out a bit early," Sherlock said, coming into the office. "Also, I know I said I'd be by for dinner tonight, but I'm going to a late lunch and won't be hungry later."

"A business lunch?" Greg asked, confused. Sherlock loved his cooking.

Sherlock shook his head and ducked his head to hide his blush. "John asked me out."

"Out as in friends? Or _out_ out as in a date?" Greg asked, leaning forward expectantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped on a chair. "It's not like that. You know full well I found him to be odious and foul-tempered before we were stuck in Sussex together."

Greg nodded and smiled, "True, but since then your opinion of him changed, and I'd say you _like_ him."

"You make me sound like a schoolgirl with a crush," Sherlock groused.

"Ain't nothing wrong with that," Greg pointed out. "So do you want to take this relationship further?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "It's just nice to be invited out again."

Greg nodded. Sherlock's life had been rough since the book came out; the fallout with Victor, the way Sherlock threw himself into the sport of fencing to get over the bastard, the way Sherlock would get close to someone only to find that they didn't care about him, or they would find out about the book and it hurt him deeply.

"Well, I hope everything goes well tonight," he said with a grin.

"Greg..." Sherlock whined.

"As a friend, you arse," Greg teased. "Now go on, I'm still on the clock and need to get back to work."

Sherlock laughed and left him to it.

* * *

John had been tempted to "forget" the cane in the cab, but he decided that it would better if he "forgot" it at the restaurant after dinner, so Sherlock could see.

He had it all planned out, he was going to show up first and remain seated throughout the meal and then "forget" his cane and wait for Sherlock to mention it.

Of course that went out the window the second Sherlock walked in. John leapt to his feet to greet the publicist. He had forgotten how good-looking the man was. He cut quite the figure in his designer suit and tousled curls. And John was standing before he even knew what happened.

"Sherlock!" he greeted warmly. "It's so good to see you."

Sherlock smiled. "Ditched the cane, have we?"

John looked down and silently cursed himself for ruining his plan. "I was going to be so clever about it and everything."

"It's still good to see you up and around without it," Sherlock murmured as they sat down.

"It's good to be walking again," John admitted. "It appears that I just needed a cause to fight for."

Sherlock spread his napkin over his knees. "And what was that?"

"Your book, or rather you," John said firmly. "I'm betting you don't have many supporters for your book or even in your life in general." Sherlock shook his head. "And since I've gotten to know you and reading your book, I came to the realization that I want to be someone you can count on and I hope you'll let me."

Sherlock blushed. "I always knew you were a passionate person and that you would need a nudge, a push, something special that would help you overcome your limp." Sherlock looked down. "I just never thought that that something special could have been me."

"Well, I happen to think you're worth it," John insisted. "So tell me what you've been up to. What does a fancy publicist do?"

Sherlock ducked his head again. "You don't want to hear about that, it's boring."

"Let me be the judge of that," John said. They ordered their food and Sherlock talked about what he did.

John listened intently and regaled him with stories of horrid customers and worse COs in between the stories Sherlock told. An anecdote here, a funny tale there. Apparently clients from hell were often similar to costumers from hell.

Once they finished dinner, they walked around the city just taking in the sights of London and enjoying each other's company.

Sherlock's phone rang, but he let go to voicemail. It immediately rang again. He looked at his watch, "Oh no! Is that the time?"

John looked at his own watch. It was seven o'clock. "Shit! I didn't realize it had gotten so late."

"I'm a half hour late to a meeting," Sherlock informed him.

"I'm sorry," John said.

Sherlock scoffed. "Why? I'm not. I enjoyed this evening and would very much like to do it again."

"Do you like Chinese?" John asked.

"Generally," Sherlock replied.

"Good, I make a fantastic stir fry, come over to my place on Friday at eight. I'll make dinner," John insisted.

"Sounds wonderful," Sherlock agreed. "Text me the address. I need to go. I'll see you Friday."

"Of course," John said, already pulling out his phone.

Sherlock waved his phone to show he'd gotten the message and ran off to hail a cab.

John stood on the street grinning like a loon for God knows how long.

* * *

Once in the cab, Sherlock called Irene back. "I'm on my way, keep your knickers on."

Irene scoffed. "As if you have any design on my knickers."

"Well, considering we're both gay, you don't want me anywhere near them anyway," Sherlock pointed out.

"True," Irene replied. "You better have a good excuse for why you stood me up. I want to hear all about it once you get here. And don't leave out any juicy details."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You really are a gossip whore, aren't you? I don't have to tell you shit, Irene, and you know it."

"I'll get it out of you, Sherlock Holmes," Irene purred. "I have my ways."

Sherlock huffed and disconnected the call.

* * *

Sherlock walked up to his PA's desk to get his phone messages and to stall for time.

"How mad is she?" he asked Wiggins, shuffling through the message cards the man had given him.

"Madder than a wet cat," Wiggins replied cheerfully.

"And yet, you didn't bother calling me when she got here..." Sherlock pointed out.

"I thought you were giving her the dodge again," Wiggins said with a shrug.

"I wish," Sherlock grumbled. "But alas, not. I guess I should get this over with."

"Good luck, boss!" Wiggins cheerily.

"I hate you," Sherlock growled, stalking his way to his office.

He opened the door and stopped. He heaved a sigh. There she was, all cool and calculating like a snake. And sitting in _his_ chair. "Get the hell out of my desk, Irene."

She crossed her legs and hissed, "You are an hour late! I had to do _something_ to pass the time."

"Out!" Sherlock snapped. She got to her feet and wiggled her way to other side of the desk and sat down, as if that's what she had intended all along.

"You're late," she repeated.

"Yes, I was enjoying myself for once and lost track of the time," he informed her as he moved around his desk to sit down in his chair.

"Enjoying yourself?" Irene asked shrilly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Irene," Sherlock said, leaning on his elbows, forearms stretched out in front of him, "that I went out to lunch with a friend and had such a good time that I lost track of time."

"Friend?" Irene asked, "You don't have friends."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Thank you for that," he said, dryly. "And bringing it up doesn't really help your cause."

She waved her hand flippantly. "Only stating facts, darling." She pulled out a contract out of her briefcase and handed it to him. "Let's get down to business."

Sherlock took the contract and began to read through it.

"You would be making six figures," Irene explained, "head of your own department, creative and professional freedom, and most importantly, out from under your brother's thumb."

"It certainly sounds tempting..." he agreed and she smiled triumphantly. "If I were a simpleton. Which I'm not."

"Excuse me?" Irene asked, scandalized. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean, Irene," Sherlock growled, "that I make seven figures now, I head not one, but _two_ departments, which I have complete creative and professional control of, and I am most assuredly _not_ under Mycroft's thumb. We are co-owners of the company. For God's sake, Irene, my name is literally _on_ the building.

"I would have to be completely stupid to take an offer that would be a cut in _every_ way possible. I'm happy where I am. Very much so."

Irene looked at him pityingly. "Oh darling, but for how much longer?" she smirked. "You are at the helm of a sinking ship. Print is dead and digital e-books are the future. I am merely giving you the chance to get out with the rats before the boat goes under."

"HarperCollins, Bloomsbury, Penguin Random, Scholastic, Hyperion...are they are sinking ships, too?" Sherlock asked derisively.

"They are all much bigger publishing houses," Irene replied. "Although, I suppose, you could be gobbled up to be one of their imprints...if you can suffer the indignity."

"We are doing fine," Sherlock growled. "May I remind you, we aren't small time, and haven't been in over thirty years. We have our own e-book line and are adding more and more books from our catalogue every day. I do not need a handout or pittance from anyone, least of all, Whiphand Publishing."

Irene looked at him, steely-eyed. "So that's a 'no', then?"

"That is a hard no, Irene," Sherlock bit out.

She stood up and grabbed her briefcase. "You'll change your tune once things start failing, and they will." Irene pointed at the contract. "You keep that, you'll need it."

And then she strolled out of his office. Once the door closed behind her, Sherlock nearly howled his frustration.

He had hoped that the meeting would convince her to stop trying to headhunt him, but it had just made her more determined.

This was _not_ how he wanted to end his night.

* * *

**A/N: And yes, before you all ask, Whiphand Publishing does specialize in purple prose, erotica, BDSM, and other steamy stories. This is Irene, after all. ;)**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: We are just chugging along. And it's nice not to stress about leaving you guys hanging for months on end because my depression won't let me function for such long stretches. That's not to say that I'm not or haven't been depressed, I just have a better way to manage my time writing that has really helped me keep going. I have even beat my previous streak of 74 days straight. So yeah. This feels good.  
**

**To Sweetmarly: Thank you again for such a lovely review. I, too, prefer the original canon personalities of both Irene and Mary, but I'm playing in the BBC Sherlock's sandbox...and while this is an AU and can do what I want, I keep closer their version than ACD's. I hope that doesn't put you off. :D**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock couldn't have been more grateful when his schedule evened out and he was able to return to the bookshop for his morning gossip with Mrs Hudson.

Though he strongly suspected that Greg, and by extension Mycroft, had something to do with that. Sherlock didn't care, he missed his mornings at 221Books and he tried to tell himself it was only Mrs Hudson and not the former soldier that he was excited to see.

He showed up with the prerequisite coffee and two strawberry scones. Sherlock cursed himself in several languages as he slowed when he caught sight of John.

The man was looking very handsome in a blue plaid button-up, a black v-neck jumper and dark blue jeans. Sherlock felt his heart speed up, even as his feet slowed down.

Thankfully Mrs Hudson wasn't up front and John was with a customer, so they didn't see the pitiful display of his schoolboy crush.

He waved at John and called for Mrs Hudson. She came running out of the back room to throw her arms around his neck.

"Sherlock Darling!" she squealed. "I had begun to despair that you wouldn't be coming back to my humble little shop."

"As if anything could keep me away," Sherlock teased.

They began their usual chatter, the two of them catching up, and John left them to it. He could see Sherlock whenever he wanted now and didn't want to infringe on Mrs Hudson's only time with the publicist.

Sherlock was trying to keep his attention on the bookshop owner, but whenever he looked over at John, the man was focused on his phone, a deep frown between his brows.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes. "John, leave it alone."

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked.

"He thinks he's Sir Galahad battling trolls," Mrs Hudson teased. "John, please. Even I know that internet trolls aren't worth the effort."

John looked up from his phone, the frown deepening. "This one is, I assure you."

Sherlock looked over at Mrs Hudson, who sighed heavily.

"He's on some forum trading insults with some twat," she explained.

"I'm _trying _to get this dickhead to admit that he has never read the book," John growled.

"Which book?" Sherlock asked.

John scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yours."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Mine? What are you doing on a forum site about my book?"

"I was trying to find someone who liked it or who didn't outright hate it," John explained. "And then I came across this prick, and he made me mad enough to reply back."

Mrs Hudson and Sherlock shared a glance.

"What did he say?" Mrs Hudson asked.

John coughed and looked away. "He said that he had slept with Sherlock to get the book and..."

"No, I can imagine the vitriol he was spouting," Sherlock said.

"It just rubbed me the wrong way, you know? How can this guy just _lie_ like that and get away with it? And I was trying to get him to trip up so I could catch in the lie, but he kept dodging me." John rubbed his face with one hand.

"Could it be Victor?" Mrs Hudson asked.

John's head whipped up, "Who?"

"My ex," Sherlock said, frowning. "May I see the conversation?" He held out his hand for John's phone.

John immediately handed it over.

Sherlock scrolled up and began reading.

"Is it him?" John asked after several tense moments.

"Thankfully, no," Sherlock said. "But it does bring to mind something that I always wondered about."

John folded his arms over his chest. "What's that?"

"If maybe _Victor_ was the one that outed William Scott as Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock murmured.

"He couldn't have," Mrs Hudson said. "You two were still together when it happened. That sounds more like something he would have done _after_ you two broke up."

"Maybe he was trying to get publicity for being the real-life inspiration for Ajay," Sherlock said, still reading through the thread. "Had the book been a success, it would have been a real feather in his cap. But only if people knew I wrote it."

"I think I like Ajay a little less now," John drawled.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "If it's any consolation, I always planned to kill him off."

John laughed, throwing his head back, "It is, actually."

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. "Is there any way to know for sure it was Victor who sold you out to the press?"

Sherlock rubbed his chin. "It's been so long now, but I'll talk to Mycroft. He has friends in journalism who might be able to dig something up."

Mrs Hudson and John both nodded as Sherlock typed out something on John's phone.

"There," Sherlock said, "that should deal with the troll." He kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek. "Look, I have to go. But I'll let you know if I find anything out."

"Of course, darling," Mrs Hudson cooed.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Sherlock assured them. "And I'm looking forward to Friday."

"Can't wait!" John agreed.

He watched as Sherlock hurried off and then looked at his phone. He laughed and then showed the message to Mrs Hudson.

It read: I've only had one boyfriend and that was ten years ago. So unless you happened to have been in Melbourne two years ago, there is no way you got the book from me, let alone had sex with me. Especially since I spent that weekend throwing up from air sickness. ;)

Mrs Hudson smiled and then hit his arm. "Why didn't you tell me you had a date with Sherlock this Friday?"

"Ow!" John protested. "I don't. It's just a couple of mates getting together and having dinner."

"Oh really?" she asked, slyly. "And where is this dinner taking place?"

John coughed. "My flat."

"What?" she shrieked. "And you're trying to tell me it's not a date?"

"It's not!" John argued. "I promise. We're just friends."

She looked at him skeptically, but let it drop.

John got a text message and smiled when he read it.

"Thank you for battling that troll for me. I would have said something in the shop, but Mrs Hudson would have started planning our wedding if I had.-SH"

John typed out his response, ignoring Mrs Hudson's knowing looks. "Too late.-JHW"

* * *

Sherlock laughed at John's response. He was about to reply when he got a phone call. "Hey, Mycroft."

"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned. "I'm fine, what's up?"

"That pest Miss Adler, kept texting me all morning demanding to know why you were late to her meeting," Mycroft explained. "As if I keep tabs on every breath you take."

Sherlock chuckled. "In another life, maybe," he joked. "Honestly, nothing's wrong. I went to lunch with John and lost track of the time."

"You haven't missed a meeting since Victor went and put up all those pictures of the two of you when you were dating, and I just worried is all," Mycroft explained.

"I told her where I was," Sherlock scoffed. "She just didn't believe me."

"Then it must have gone very well indeed if you forgot a meeting with _the_ Irene Adler," Mycroft teased.

"It was nice to speak with someone who was interested in me for me and not because I was Sherlock Holmes, son of publishing mogul Siger Holmes," Sherlock said.

"I'm impressed, I had to find someone in the business to get that feeling," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock chuckled. "I didn't deviate that far from the business, he is a writer after all."

"I wouldn't say that was the same as marrying an editor, brother mine," Mycroft said. "At least this one isn't an arse like the last one."

"I guess anyone would be a step up from Victor," Sherlock admitted. "Not that we're dating!" he hurried to correct.

Mycroft's smile could be felt through the phone. "Not yet, but John isn't just a step up, he's several stories up."

"Considering that Victor was a basement dweller, it doesn't take much to be several stories up," Sherlock scoffed.

"True," Mycroft replied and then took a deep breath. "He gets worse."

Sherlock gasped. "So it was him..."

"I'm afraid so, Lockie," Mycroft said sadly. "I had Langdale Pike look into it."

Sherlock nodded. Langdale was an investigative reporter for one of the best papers in England; if anyone could find out who it was, it would be him. "Mhmm."

"It seems Victor Trevor has been trying to stay 'relevant' for the last ten years," Mycroft continued, "first with the photos, and then a couple of years ago he admitted to leaking your name to the press on some blog."

"He could have been lying," Sherlock said softly.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "He was that sort, but no. Pike went for the journalist who broke the original story, Kitty Riley. And she was at first fiercely protective of her source, until Pike pulled out his ace with Victor's blog confession. Then she folded like a house of cards."

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. "Oh, God."

"I'm sorry, Lockie," Mycroft murmured.

"He was a gold digger, wasn't he?" Sherlock choked out.

"The worst of the worst, I'm afraid," Mycroft agreed. "He is a snake and no longer any of your concern. You focus on wooing that soldier of yours."

Sherlock blushed. "He's hardly mine."

Mycroft chuckled. "Just you wait. Just you wait."

* * *

**A/N: About the scene with John and the troll, I originally had it before Greg met with John as his editor. But as I was typing it up, it didn't work there. Not even as it was written. So I did a bit of juggling, and I think it works better here. **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Yeah another chapter! A whole chapter dedicated to their "not" date. Enjoy!**

**Also huge props to my beta Old Ping Hai! She has really risen to the occasion in beta'ing my chapters as quickly as I'm typing them up.**

* * *

John was grateful that Friday was here at last. Mrs Hudson had teased him and Sherlock about their "date" at every opportunity. Despite both men repeatedly telling her that it wasn't _like_ that.

John started pulling ingredients out of the icebox and began to make what he had planned. And that was an awful lot. He did the wontons first as they could be kept warm without having them get soggy or dry. Then he pan fried vegetables and noodles as the rice cooked. Then the chicken fried rice.

He was just reheating the wontons when the doorbell rang. He counted each dish to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything and then wiped off his hands. He opened the door to a very dashing Sherlock Holmes.

The man always dressed well, but tonight he had pulled out all the stops. He was in a black suit with a deep blue button-up shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes.

"You look fantastic," John said, as he moved to the side to let Sherlock in.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied with a blush. He glanced John over and then huffed out a giggle at John's apron.

John twirled to make the frilly pink apron flare out like a tutu. "I needed something fast and this was all my sister-in-law had on hand." He ran his hands over the frills and lifted up his chin defiantly. "Besides, I think I look pretty."

"The prettiest," Sherlock agreed.

"Come on through," John said. "Dinner is ready. I don't have a lot to choose from, but there are drinks on the counter."

Sherlock nodded, taking off his jacket.

He poured drinks for John and himself and brought them over to the table. "It looks marvelous. You really went above and beyond."

"It was fun. My sister-in-law is American and her father firmly believed in honoring different cultures. Mexican food on Cinco de Mayo, a full-on Jewish seder, and Chinese-American food on the Chinese New Year. And this is what he would make. Though sometimes the main dish would vary depending if it was the year of the chicken, or the boar, or the cow."

"I'm guessing chicken, pork, or beef?" Sherlock asked, setting a napkin on his lap.

"Right in one," John said, grabbing a fork and a set of chopsticks. "Chopsticks or fork?"

"Chopsticks, please," Sherlock murmured.

"I was hoping you would say that," John said with a grin and put the fork back for another set of chopsticks.

John handed Sherlock a set and sat down to eat. They talked and laughed, enjoying each other's company.

After dinner, John just set their dishes in the sink for later washing and refilled their drinks.

They sat on John's sofa, and John handed Sherlock his glass.

Sherlock sighed happily. "Thank you for this, it has been a hell of a week, and I just needed to get away from it all for a bit."

"You're welcome," John replied. "You want to talk about your week?"

Sherlock let out a different kind of sigh. This one was a breath of resignation. "My meeting didn't go as well as I would have hoped."

"It wasn't because you were late, was it?" John asked, concerned.

"No, it wasn't you," Sherlock assured him. "It's just that I have this person who's been trying to headhunt me for months and despite my constant refusals, she won't let it drop. She seems to think that she is saving me from something like utter ruin."

"That's ridiculous," John replied. "Even if Shercroft Publishing went under tomorrow, your family has been wealthy for generations, you would still be able to live comfortably for the rest of your life."

"I know, but there are times that I wonder if it's that she wants to control me, rather than any real desire to see me happy," Sherlock admitted.

"That's probably closer to the truth," John said.

Sherlock cast his eyes over the room. He spotted "Griffin's Steps" on John's side table. "I didn't realize that you still had it." He picked it up to look at it.

"Yeah," John replied. "I didn't mean to abscond with your book, I just had it with my things and I packed so quickly, it ended up in with the rest of it."

"Oh," Sherlock murmured.

"And well...after that I _didn't_ want to give it back," John said. "Not with that ending."

Sherlock looked up, stunned. "You still like it even with the ending?"

"I want the sequels yesterday, but yeah, I still liked the damn book," John muttered darkly.

Sherlock chuckled. "Mycroft would probably like his book back, so why I don't I find you another copy and sign it for you."

"You'd do that?" John asked.

"Sure," Sherlock said with a shrug. "There is a whole pile of them collecting dust in a warehouse somewhere. I might as well find a good home for one of them."

John grinned. "I tried looking for a copy online, but even used booksellers were selling it for ridiculous amounts of money. So I will happily take one off your hands."

"I'm surprised people are selling it for that much, if I'm honest."

John shrugged. "It's like owning a banned book, they're selling the drama behind the book, not the book itself. Which is sad, because if it was released today instead of ten years ago, there wouldn't be as much backlash."

"You know, my brother-in-law says that all the time," Sherlock admitted.

"Greg's right."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't believe I told you his name..."

John laughed. "He's my editor."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That's unusual. He doesn't take on first-time authors as a rule. He must have really thought your book was something special."

John just smiled.

"Regardless, my book wasn't released today, it was released ten years ago and if wishes were fishes, I'd eat for a lifetime," he pressed on.

"So rewrite it and release it again," John said.

Sherlock's head rocked back. "Excuse me?"

"Sherlock, what would you say was the biggest drawback to the actual book that didn't include two boys kissing?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment before he said, "How young I was when I wrote it."

John nodded. "Despite how much I love 'Griffin's Steps', the one thing that got me was how juvenile it read. And then when I found it was written by an actual teenager, it made sense.

"So why not rewrite it now that you're an adult, make it better by your sheer experience, not only going through the constant hell of people hating your book, but by your experience in the publishing industry."

"I-I'll think about it," Sherlock promised.

John nodded. "See that you do, because I'm willing to bet, I'm not the only one chomping at the bit to read more."

Sherlock bumped John's shoulder with his own. He had just lifted his drink to take a sip when his phone rang. He pulled it out and looked at the caller-ID.

"It's Wiggins, my PA," he explained as he accepted the call. "He knows not to call unless it's a emergency.

"Hey."

Sherlock frowned as Wiggins frantically explained what was going on.

"What do you mean the printer says the images for 'Kellen's Den' are wrong? I've sent them the same size files I always have. How can they be wrong?"

Sherlock listened again. "Oh for fuck's sake. Tell Jim to get his head out of his arse and read the God damned email. It's for the trade paperback and not for the standard."

He closed his eyes. "Yes, trade paperback. It's in the email. Thank you."

He hung up and pressed his phone to his forehead.

"Trouble at work?" John asked.

"Only moderately," Sherlock explained. "I don't have to run off, if that's what you're asking."

"Good, because I have this fantastic chocolate cake and lovely champagne to go with it that I would hate to go to waste," John murmured.

"That would be a crime indeed."

John got up and Sherlock followed him to the kitchen, where they feasted on cake and talked well into the night.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hello! Welcome to another chapter of this wonderful story.**

**I am really loving this experience. I have never had a full length story (more than 10,000 words) where it was completely finished before I started typing it up and I am enjoying the playing around I get to do. I've been able to rearrange and add to this story because I know where it's going and how it's going to end. And I am so grateful to be able to share it with you at what feels like a breakneck speed.**

**I am also loving the comments and attention this story getting. Thank you all!**

* * *

The following morning Sherlock spent hours dealing with the printer; once he was done he buried his head in his hands.

"You okay?" Greg asked from the doorway.

Sherlock raised his head slowly. "Hey, Greg."

Greg slid into the room and closed the door behind him. "What's up?"

"I love my job, well jobs, really," Sherlock sighed. "But this wasn't where I saw myself...at any time in my life, honestly. As a child, as a youth, as an adult. I stumbled on both because I'm a bastard. But this isn't what I really want to do."

"What did you want to do?"

"I wanted to be an author. I didn't want to be popular. Well, not popular like CS Lewis or JK Rowling, anyway. I wanted to be selling books and be able to write for the rest of my life.

"I thought I had gotten over that silly want, that silly desire, and then I meet John Watson and got to know him and suddenly I want to start writing again."

Greg sat down heavily in the chair in front of Sherlock's desk and drew his hands down his face. "He told you to rewrite 'Griffin's Steps', didn't he?"

Sherlock frowned. "How do you know?"

"He told you I was his editor, yeah?"

"Of course, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Quite a lot," Greg explained, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. "You see, we talked about you and your book–"

"You talked about me?" Sherlock interrupted.

"When we weren't talking about his book, you are all he would talk about, to be honest," Greg said. "But, anyway, we were talking about it being ahead of its time and he suggested to me that you should rewrite it."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He opened them slowly. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him that it was too big of a risk for you," Greg said slowly. "He wasn't there when it all went to shit and hasn't had to deal with the fallout." He hung his head. "That said, Sherlock, I think you should rewrite it, too."

"You want me to rewrite my book?" Sherlock asked, unbelieving.

Greg lifted his head and leaned back in the chair. "You don't have to publish it, if you don't want to. But Sherlock, you said it yourself, you wanted to be a writer, not a publicist and marketer."

Sherlock looked over at the glass case containing the thumb drive that held his stories. "The drive might not even work," he reasoned.

"That's true," Greg replied. "But would it really be so bad to start from scratch?"

Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle. "I suppose not."

"Go on then," Greg said, motioning to the thumb drive with his chin.

Sherlock picked up the case and gave it a little toss, feeling its weight. Then without warning he threw it to the ground. There was a large crash and the tinkling of broken glass as it skittered across the floor.

"Well, that was certainly dramatic," Greg said dryly.

The door to the office tore open to reveal a very worried Wiggins.

"What the hell was that?" he panted.

Sherlock bent down and began to pick through the larger pieces of glass with his handkerchief. He picked up the thumb drive and held it up for Wiggins to see.

"Wait, is that what I think it is?" Wiggins asked, looking back and forth between Greg and Sherlock.

"Yep!" Greg said, as Sherlock just grinned.

"Well, I'll be damned," Wiggins said approvingly.

* * *

John staggered into the restaurant where he and Sherlock had agreed to meet and nearly collapsed into the chair across from Sherlock.

"Are you all right?" the publicist asked, concerned.

John ran his fingers through his hair. "Not really, I'm working all day at the bookshop and then coming home and editing until I fall asleep at my keyboard."

"How late do you think you are staying up?" Sherlock asked.

John rubbed his temples. "It varies depending on when I get home, but at least one or two o'clock at night."

"That's far too late to be healthy, John," Sherlock murmured.

They ordered their food and John got a cup of their darkest coffee.

"I think it would be better if Mrs Hudson hired more people at the shop," John continued once their waiter left. "Then I could have a day off once in awhile." He rubbed his eyes warily. "I don't mind the hours most days, but it's just me and her, and when it gets busy I honestly wish I could clone myself."

"I can only imagine," Sherlock said softly. "I'll talk to her and see if she can't hire more staff. Or at the very least start thinking about hiring your replacement."

"My replacement?" John asked, confused.

"For when you quit or take your sabbatical or whatever you decide to do," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Come again?" John questioned, feeling his temper flare.

"You do realize that you are going to have to do book tours to promote your book, right?"

"I thought only big name authors did that sort of thing?" John felt his panic rise.

"Not at all, every author does tours, it helps drum up interest in the book. Granted when you're first starting out, you'll only have small crowds." Sherlock tilted his head to the side, "If you can call two to seven people a crowd."

Their food arrived and John's panic had reached its apex. He took a bite of his food, but it tasted like ash on his tongue. "And what is usually required of the author at these events?"

Sherlock waved his hand. "Well, you know, talking to people about your book, reading the first chapter, and if you're lucky maybe a signing or two. And that's just when you first get started; if you become popular there's more to it."

The more Sherlock talked, the harder John gripped the edges of their table. By the time Sherlock had finished explaining, John had a white-knuckle grip on it.

"John, are you all right?"

John closed his eyes and tried to remember his breathing techniques to calm himself.

"John?" Sherlock asked, his concern growing by the second.

Sherlock must have seen it before it happened, because he was able to catch John before he teetered to ground.

When John came to, he had a very worried publicist staring at him, with a ring of curious or concerned patrons of the restaurant.

"You had an episode," Sherlock explained calmly, more calmly than he felt.

"Fuck," John groaned, struggling to sit up. Sherlock grabbed his arm and helped him into an upright position.

"What happened?" the brunet asked.

John rubbed his face. "I don't have a fear of crowds or public speaking or any of that, but for some reason my anxiety spiked and began to hyperfocus on the sudden upheaval of my life." He stopped for a second and then swore a blue streak. "Okay so maybe not for no reason."

Sherlock helped him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you some fresh air."

John nodded and let Sherlock lead him out of the restaurant onto the pavement. He was further led to a concrete planter and was plopped down.

"Thanks for that," John murmured.

"I didn't figure you wanted to explain to an entire room of strangers why your panic attack wasn't as out of the blue as you thought," Sherlock replied with a smile.

"Yeah," John agreed. "It was the sudden change. The last time my life changed so dramatically I had been shot in the shoulder and left to die in a fucking desert."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That is quite the change. So what are you going to do?"

John rubbed his chin as he thought about it. "I'm not going to give up now. Besides, it's not as though it's going to happen tomorrow, for God's sake."

Sherlock grinned. "Nope," he said popping the 'P'. "Just let me go pay the bill, and we'll get fish and chips instead."

John laughed. "Yeah, nothing like a good chippy to make one feel better after a panic attack."

Sherlock winked and went to do as he said.

They got their fish and chips and found a nice bench to sit and chat.

Sherlock only left John's side when he was sure that John would be all right. As he waved goodbye to the former soldier, Sherlock figured he had at least managed to pay him back just a little for Sussex and the rain storm.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This chapter is brought to you by a whole hell of a lot of effort, not just by me but my beta Old Ping Hai as well. **

**For you see this chapter isn't in the finished story. It was added whole cloth because Sherlock and John's relationship went way too fast. And the story suffered for it. So I took bits (really small bits, more like nibbles) that I had edited out and created two new scenes to put those nibbles in. But because it wasn't written at the same time as the rest of the story it needed a bit more love to whip it into shape. **

**So enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock wanted to scream. He thought that he had successfully dealt with the printer, but apparently not. They had made yet _another_ mistake. This one was much bigger than saying a file was the wrong size; this was a costly mistake worth several thousand pounds.

They had been able to catch the last printing error in time, which was merely the third book in a trilogy being printed with the second book's cover. That was caught before being mailed out, this was worse.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, fluffing his curls angrily.

He knew what the problem was. Like Shercroft Publishing, Moran & Moriarty had been in business for generations (Shercroft Publishing was its most recent rebranding, having been called some iteration of Holmes family names for the last hundred or so years). Moran & Moriarty had also been in business for that long, but most recently it had been taken over by the youngest Moriarty son, who seemed hell-bent on running the company into the ground.

It was looking more and more likely that he was going to have to go to Cork and kick their arses into gear.

But...

He rolled his head back against the headrest of his chair and groaned. He hit the arms of his chair in frustration. He really didn't want to leave London. London had a lot of charms, and none more enticing than that of John Watson.

John Watson was the one person in all the world that he could be himself with. They would go out to dinner or John would cook for them and either one meant that they would be talking long into the night. They would go for coffee or visit a park. Just being themselves.

Sherlock sniffed, struggling to get his emotions under control. He had people he needed to call, and his brother was on the top of that list.

He cleared his throat and breathed, "Hey."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft greeted warmly. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Something needs to be done about Moran & Moriarty Prints," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh dear!" Mycroft exclaimed. "What have they done this time?"

"Sent an entire shipment of books with their covers attached upside down to three major bookshops in Leeds."

"Was it just one shipment of a single book or were there several books in the order that were bound incorrectly?" Mycroft asked.

"The _whole_ shipment of multiple books. Roughly seventy to a hundred books per shop," Sherlock bit out.

"What!" Mycroft squawked.

"They are being sent back to be pulped. But it is a very costly mistake and it's not the first one this month," Sherlock explained.

"What should we do?"

"What _can_ we do?"

"Do you suppose that if we sent someone down there that we could come to some kind of...well, agreement? Especially since these mistakes appear more than a little malicious in nature," Mycroft said hopefully.

"That was my thought as well," Sherlock said, resigned. He sighed. "I think he's doing it to get my attention."

"We don't have to send you," Mycroft assured him. "You have a PA as well as an entire department of capable people, any one of whom we could send in your stead."

"If I thought sending someone else would help, but I think it would make matters worse if I didn't go."

"Well, well," Mycroft teased. "Aren't you suddenly Mr Popular? First Irene, then John, and now Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock groaned. "And only one of them actually cares about me as a person and not just some notch in their bed post."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "Which is exactly why we should send someone else. Anyone else."

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll be all right," Sherlock said. "It will only be for a couple of weeks and then I'll be back before you know it."

"If you're sure, Lockie," Mycroft said.

"Not really," Sherlock admitted. "But if my going will prevent bigger, more expensive mistakes and get us back on track, then better me than someone else who might mess it up further."

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock had a point. "All right, when do you leave?"

"I'll head out first thing in the morning," Sherlock told him.

His brother didn't say a word, but Sherlock could feel his smug grin through the phone line.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Will you be spending this evening packing or...were you planning a more pleasurable way to spend your last night England for a fortnight?" Mycroft asked, aiming for nonchalant.

Sherlock growled. "What I do or do not do tonight is none of your business."

"Ooh..." Mycroft teased. "I hadn't realized that your relationship with the good doctor had progressed that far."

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled and hung up the phone, but not fast enough to avoid hearing his brother's delighted laugh.

He called Mrs Hudson next and explained that due to some unforeseen circumstances he wouldn't be able to come and chat with her in the mornings, as he would be away on business. Mrs Hudson was understanding, if a trifle disappointed. They hadn't had much time as of late due to his being stuck in Sussex.

And then he called John.

"Hey, Sherlock," the former soldier greeted warmly. "What's up?"

"Hey, John," Sherlock murmured. "So...um...do you remember that printer I was having trouble with that first time we had dinner at your place?"

"Yeah," John sighed. "What did he do this time?"

"Made a mistake so costly that about two hundred and fifty to three hundred books need to be pulped," Sherlock replied wearily.

"Pulped?" John asked.

"Completely destroyed," Sherlock explained. "Sometimes a book's cover will be ripped off and it would be counted as a loss to the publisher. Then they don't receive any money from it. Pulping is out and out reducing the book to pulp to be made into other books. Pulping is rare."

"Ouch!" John commiserated.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "That is why Mycroft and I decided to send me to deal with the problem directly. I'll be heading out to Cork to kick their arses."

"Christ, yeah," John said. "So when are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow," he admitted. "But I wanted..." Sherlock didn't know how to finish that sentence, to convey his desire to spend time with John. "I was wondering if you, perhaps..." again he trailed off, unsure.

But John came to his rescue. "Do you want to go out to dinner with me tonight?"

Had Sherlock been standing, his knees would have gone out from the sheer relief of John taking over. "That would be wonderful."

John chuckled. "So I'll pick you up at your office at seven?"

"I'll be here."

"See you then," John signed off.

"Until then," Sherlock breathed.

* * *

The restaurant John chose was a nice, upscale French bistro with a soothing atmosphere and tasteful decor.

They were uncharacteristically quiet throughout dinner.

"Thank you for this," Sherlock said, halfway through dinner.

"I'm just sorry you have to go at all," John murmured into his plate.

"Me too," Sherlock admitted softly. "I honestly don't know what this idiot is doing, but I think he is trying to see which buttons he can press before someone snaps. Particularly me."

"So you're pushing his buttons back?" John asked.

Sherlock just nodded and they spent the rest of the meal in silence.

John paid the bill and walked out ahead of Sherlock.

The publicist was quick on his feet and called out, "John, wait!"

The former soldier's shoulders sagged and he stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, head hanging down.

"Please!" Sherlock cried running up to John and grabbing his arm. "I don't know what I said or did wrong."

John raised his head and snapped, "I'm sure the two of you will be very happy together." He tried to shrug Sherlock off, but the publicist held on tighter.

"It's just business, John," Sherlock implored. "It's not like that."

The former soldier scoffed.

"I don't know when I'll be back, it shouldn't take more than a couple of weeks, but it could take longer. This is my last night in London for God knows how long," Sherlock explained, letting go when John yanked his arm again. "I could be spending it packing; boring. Or with Mrs Hudson; embarrassing, all that crying. Or with my brother and his husband; torture. But I chose you. Doesn't that–" he stopped, looking down at his feet. "Shouldn't that count for something?"

John looked up at Sherlock. The publicist's shoulders were rounded and his hands were jammed into his coat pockets. His head was turned away and every line in his body was screaming his distress.

John grasped Sherlock's head and gently moved it so he could press their foreheads together. "Fuck, I am so sorry. So sorry. I am jealous by nature and I let it get the better of me." He let out a shuddering sigh. "After we hung up, I looked up the company. I found the 'Jim' you mentioned the other day and I–"

Sherlock gathered him up in his arms and held him tight as John's shuddering breath became something more akin to a sob. John's shoulders shook as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, holding on for dear life.

"He was rich, handsome, polished in ways I'm not," John muttered into Sherlock's chest. "I couldn't help but compare myself to him and I came up short."

Sherlock rubbed his hands up and down John's back, "He didn't sit with me though the thunderstorm of the century, he didn't make me dinner after a horrible week, he didn't lose his limp because of me."

John chuckled.

"There are far more important things than money and good looks," Sherlock continued. "And while we're on the subject of good looks, you must know what a striking figure you cut."

John stepped back far enough to see Sherlock's face, but not far enough to break Sherlock's hold on him. "You think I'm good looking?"

"Don't go fishing for compliments," Sherlock growled. "It's unbecoming."

John waggled his eyebrows. "Unbecoming of a good-looking man like myself?" he teased.

Sherlock looked down his nose at John, "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope!" John said, popping 'P'. "Sherlock Holmes thinks I'm good looking."

"You're incorrigible," Sherlock muttered, pushing him away.

But John leaned into his space again and soon they were pushing and roughhousing with each other right there on the pavement.

They stopped, laughing breathlessly. Suddenly Sherlock could feel how close John was and John must have sensed it, too. John's breath caught and Sherlock's breath mingled with his, they were so close.

The blaring horn of a passing lorry shattered the moment.

Sherlock and John both jumped at the sound. John immediately turned to yell and curse at the driver. He chased the driver down the street a few feet before he waved his hand and came stomping back to Sherlock.

The publicist watched him with fond amusement.

"What the hell was that bloke's problem anyway?" John huffed once he got back to Sherlock.

Sherlock just shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He nudged John's shoulder with his own. "Come on, let's go back to my place. I have a pint of ice cream that needs to be devoured before I leave."

"What kind?" John asked, his good humor already returning.

"Chocolate."

John rubbed his chin, "It would be a shame for that to go to waste indeed."

Sherlock laughed and hailed a cab.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: In which we find out how their night ended and stir the pot a bit.**

**Enjoy!**

**Also shout out to sweetmarly, thank you for all the lovely reviews you've been leaving. I love them all. And cheers to everyone else that has reviewed. Thank you soo much. **

* * *

John sat in the shop's bathroom with his head in his hands as he tried not to scream. It was the only place in the entire building that the new hire did _not_ follow him. And he didn't have a tall, gorgeous publicist coming in every day to dissuade her.

Sherlock and he had gone to his flat and ate ice cream, but despite the almost kiss on the pavement, they had kept their distance to a friendly banter.

John at least was smart enough to give Sherlock a hug when the publicist dropped him off at his flat, but now he wished he had taken that kiss. Then he could have something to shore himself against the childish wiles of Mary Morstan.

There was a knock on the bathroom door and John looked up.

"John?" a warm male voice called. "Mary says the cash box isn't working again."

And there was John's _other_ problem. Mrs Hudson had decided to hire two part-timers instead of one full-timer and she was making him train both of them at the same time.

At least James Sholto was a much easier person to deal with.

John opened the door to reveal the older blond. He had retired from the army with distinction and was working at 221Books as way to fill his time. He was broad-shouldered and striking in a way only those in the military could muster.

James smiled in consolation. "I know you're on your break, but she's with a customer and I don't know how to fix it."

John sighed. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."

James followed John back out to the store proper and immediately went back to stocking shelves.

John walked over to the cash box where Mary Morstan stood with the customer. Mary was a sweet-faced young woman in her early twenties. She had bright blue eyes and dyed blonde hair. She was studying to be a nurse and would be working nights once she was fully trained at the shop.

"My apologies," John told the customer. "I hope to get this fixed for you as quick as I can."

He rang up the client and hit total. The machine sprang to life and the customer paid John the amount owed.

"You were hitting the cancel button again," John admonished. "One is red, the other is green. It's not that hard."

"Well, if she had been paying attention instead of constantly looking at the back of the store for something," the customer glared at Mary, "or someone, she would have seen she was hitting the wrong key."

John blushed. He knew who the customer was referring to and so did Mary. He couldn't help her crush on him, so he did his best to ignore it.

"I'll make sure she gets talked to about that," he assured the customer.

"Be sure that you do," she huffed and grabbed her purchase, strolling out of the store angrily.

He turned to Mary and opened his mouth to admonish her. She gave him these big doe eyes and pouted.

"Look, you need to do better at the cash box because in two weeks, you're going to be entirely by yourself and I won't be here to bail you out," John pointed out.

"I know, John," she simpered. "But I just got distracted." Mary looked him up and down appreciatively.

John bit his lip and forced down the barracks language that sprang to mind when she did this. He knew what she was attracted to. His confidence and swagger which, to be honest, John thought he'd lost. But with Sherlock Holmes, not only had he gotten it back, he had gotten it back in spades. And to a young woman like Mary, it must have been intoxicating.

Only, John had no desire to date someone fifteen years his junior. Even without all the complications that came with having feelings for a certain publicist. Maybe before he was invalided out of the army, he would have at least tapped that, but now...John shook his head.

"Just don't do it again, Mary," he admonished.

She just smiled and went back to work.

"John?" James called out softly.

John immediately went over to where the former soldier was standing, holding a couple of books.

"What's up?" he greeted.

James held up the two books in his hand, "I have a couple of books and I don't know where to shelve them."

John took the books from James and looked them over. Both books were by American fantasy writer, Brandon Sanderson.

"Yeah, I see your problem," John agreed. "With authors that write for several genres and age groups, it's hard to determine where a new book falls." He looked around, "Come on, I'll show you how to look up books in the system. Oftentimes publishers will put the genre of book in the listing."

He walked over the to computer and then looked up. "Mary, come here, please."

James grimaced.

"It's better to show you both at the same time," John explained quietly.

James was standing on John's left, which gave his right an opening for Mary to stand, but the young nursing student had other plans.

She sandwiched herself between the two men, pressing up against John's back.

John glared at her, before picking her up and depositing her on his right side. "Don't be rude. James was on that side first, and I need both of you to see what I'm doing."

Mary blushed and pushed a loose hair behind her ear.

"Also, pay attention, because if you need to have it shown to you again, I'll have James or Mrs Hudson show you, because I won't," he told her sternly.

She nodded, and John set about showing them how to look up books by title, author, genre, or classification. And then he had them both try to do it by themselves.

And they played around like that until a customer came in.

But by the end of the day, John was exhausted. All he wanted to do was bury his head in his pillow and sleep, but there was one thing he needed to do first.

He laid down on his bed and pulled out his phone, dialing the one number he had memorized. He smiled when Sherlock picked up after the second ring.

"Hey," John murmured.

"You sound tired, are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

John rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Not really." He huffed out a sigh. "These new hires are going to kill me. I'm used to giving orders from my army days, but this training shit has got my patience down to my last nerve."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, sympathetic.

So John told him about Mary and her many mistakes.

"I don't care what she thinks about me, but I do care she's being rude to James. The bloke doesn't deserve her ire."

"Have you talked to Mrs Hudson about her?" Sherlock's voice took on a hard edge.

"She seems to think it is funny. Just a little schoolgirl crush that Mary'll get over," John ground out.

"I..." Sherlock trailed off. "I hope so." He suddenly wished he could be home on the next train.

"Me, too," John admitted. "Her attention makes me uncomfortable and I don't like seeing her be rude to James or to customers."

"What's James like?" Sherlock asked, aiming for nonchalant.

"Stoic military type. Quiet," John explained. "If you go in for that."

"And you don't?" came the surprised question.

John chuckled. He wasn't about to say what his type was as that would be showing his hand just a little too much. And that was a conversation best had in person. "No. I'm not interested in either one; besides, by the end of the year, I'll be traipsing all over this blasted country."

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, that's certainly true."

"How did your meeting go?" John asked.

"Apparently the Moran side of Moran & Moriarty Prints showed up and doused everything Jim had planned with cold water. Seriously, the man walked out of there looking for all the world like a drowned cat."

"Not literally, I hope," John said, trying to stifle his giggles.

"No, but now that I know the dynamic, this negotiation will be a cakewalk," Sherlock replied. "That is, if we even decide to stay with them."

"Oh?" John asked, intrigued.

"Yes, Mycroft has given me permission to start hunting around for another printer," he informed the former soldier.

"That will certainly stir the pot," John said, impressed. "But that's going to extend things, isn't it?"

Sherlock let out a long sigh. "I'm afraid it will, and it means that the two-week time frame will be stretched out to who knows how long."

"You will be back for my release party at the end of the year, right?" John asked, hopefully.

"That's two months away," Sherlock said. "I hope this won't last as long as that. But I can't make promises, I'm sorry, John."

John felt a lump form in his throat. "I know. It's just the only person I want there is you."

"If I'm still stuck here, I'll see if I can take a couple of days off to be in London for the party at the very least," Sherlock soothed.

"I'll take what I can get," John mumbled.

"You're dead on your feet," Sherlock admonished.

"'m not..." he slurred. "I'm lying down."

"Go to sleep, John," the publicist chuckled. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

And John fell asleep with the phone still pressed to his ear.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Welp! I am almost done with the fair tale of mine. I will miss it terribly and all of you lovely people and your sweet comments. But all beginnings have an end and this one is in its autumn.**

**As for the next story, it's supposed to be the Beauty and the Beast AU, but it has been a LONG time since I worked on it because I would say I have three or four chapters worth of world building material that is important to set up the story, but I haven't even got Sherlock yet. And usually with my fan fiction I don't have to do that sort of world building I can just into the meaty parts of the story. But I can't do that with this one and it has left me frustrated. And writing out of order has never worked well for me.**

**So what have I been doing while typing up this wonderful story? Other little johnlock ideas, just fun little jaunts of writing exercises. And well...writing some Good Omens fics. But GO fics are my treat for writing Sherlock stories (not that they're a chore, they are just my main fandom and deserves my full attention even if GO has sparked interest for the moment). So I guess what I'm say is we'll see what the future holds.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

When John showed up to work the next day, tired and rumpled, he got exactly three reactions. Sympathy from Mrs Hudson, amusement from James, and from Mary? If he didn't know better, he would have said that she was brooding. And he had no reason for her attitude, it stumped him.

He had a job to do and worrying about her mood was not it. But as the day went on, it became increasingly his problem as she abused books, the cash box, and customers alike. John pulled her aside after the third patron complained.

"What is with you today?" he asked, concerned. "If you keep this up I'll be forced to send you home."

Mary folded her arms over her chest. "You aren't the boss, John. That's Mrs Hudson. This isn't the army, there is no chain of command."

John's eyebrows shot up. "What the hell? Mrs Hudson put me in charge of training you, and I'm pretty sure she'd back me up if you keep growling at her customers."

"Whatever," Mary huffed.

"What is wrong with you? This is highly unprofessional, and I'm getting tired of your attitude," he bit out.

Mary rolled her eyes. "You want to talk about unprofessional, how about we talk about how you were quite obviously out all night and came in looking like you had had sex."

John's jaw dropped. "What the honest fuck, Mary? You think I look like this because I got a leg over with someone last night and rolled out bed, thoroughly shagged?"

Mary gave a half shrug. "That, or you got pissed."

John's jaw worked back and forth as he struggled with what to say next. "I am a veteran of the Afghanistan war where I was wounded in action. I have PTSD, which can make for a rough night. Add on the fact that I am holding down a full-time job, training you and James, and have a deadline I have to meet to get my book out in time. When do I have time for a social life?"

Mary's face smoothed and she perked up a bit. "So you don't have a girlfriend?"

"No," he bit out. "Not that it's _any_ of your business. I don't have _time._"

"Oh," she replied, a small smile creeping up on her face. She smirked and then walked back out to the store, a spring in her step.

John didn't say anything, just rolled his eyes.

* * *

John continued not to say anything when the flirting intensified. Well, not to Mary anyway. He begged, he pleaded and he threatened Mrs Hudson to tell Sherlock she didn't like strawberry scones. To no avail.

Mrs Hudson just laughed. "John, you should feel flattered that she thinks you're so _handsome_."

John twitched. "I'm really uncomfortable with her behavior and you can't tell me it's not hurting business."

Mrs Hudson softened. "It's not as though it's going to be for very much longer, is it? Soon Sherlock will be back and she'll see how mistaken she is in you returning her affections."

"You make me sound like I'm in some Jane Austen novel," John groused.

But Mrs Hudson just patted his shoulder and went back to tending to business.

* * *

John definitely preferred his mornings to his evenings. While Mary was flirtatious and coy, James was quiet and refined. They would talk about their time in the army and their mutual acquaintances. They had never met when they both were in the military, but they knew some of the same people, albeit at different times.

"Does Col White still do that twitchy thing with his mustache when he's about to start screaming?" John asked.

James doubled over in laughter. "I've never thought of it like that, but yes. Yes, he does. He looks like a Disney character."

"Merlin! From 'Sword in the Stone'!" John crowed.

"Oh God!" James replied. "I will never be able to unsee that."

"Good thing the chances of us seeing him again are pretty slim," John said, fighting back tears of laughter.

"Yes, thank goodness," James agreed.

So John started to bring coffee and scones for James, Mrs Hudson and himself to cheer himself up. Winter was coming in and still Sherlock was in Ireland.

* * *

"Hey," John greeted. "How's Cork?"

Sherlock sighed. "Miserable without you in it."

"Same can be said of London and you," he said with an answering sigh.

"I miss you so much," Sherlock murmured. "But at least I finally got permission to shove off M&M and hire another company."

"Oh, to be a fly on that wall when you tell them you went with someone else," John said with a grin. "Who are you going to go with? Not Magnusson Inc, I hope."

"God no, that bastard is worst than M&M," Sherlock assured him. "No, it's a London-based company called the Diogenes Printing Club."

"Printing Club?" John asked. "That doesn't sound very professional."

Sherlock laughed. "It only started out as a club, but they are one of the premier printers in England."

"So when will you be home?" John ached to see him face to face. They would live chat sometimes but it wasn't like being able to brush their fingers together or rub shoulders in the cab.

"Not until after the first of the year," Sherlock muttered.

John's heart sank. "So you'll miss the party?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Just be back in time for your birthday," John admonished, but his heart wasn't really in it. "I have something special planned for you."

"Can't wait," Sherlock breathed.

* * *

After a particularly trying day of Mary, (she and James swapped shifts that day because she had a party she was going to that night) James came up to him.

"Why do you let her hang onto you like that?"

John looked over at the former army major and sighed. "I'm not _letting_ her do anything. I've begged, I've pleaded, I've been nice, rude, and everything in between and nothing deters her."

"You could make up a girlfriend...or boyfriend?" James suggested.

John shook his head. "No good, I already told her that I didn't have time to go out, so where would I have met this person?"

James blushed. "You could have a real boyfriend..."

"Oh." Well, that wasn't _completely_ out of left field, but it wasn't wholly expected either.

"Never mind, sorry," James rushed to apologize. "I know you're going to be going on that book tour in a couple of weeks, but I just wanted to let you know–"

"James, I'm flattered," John said, cutting him off. "You're a great bloke. But I only think of you as a friend, and a good one at that. But I like someone else."

"So, you're straight then?" James asked softly.

John barked out a laugh. "That other person is _not_ Mary Morstan, you arse."

James blushed deeper and turned his head. "Sorry."

"Didn't I just get through saying I'm beating her off with a stick?" John asked.

James tilted his head. "True. So are you gay?"

John bit his lip. "Bisexual, if I had to put a label on it. Could be pan or whatever the kids are calling it these days. But, yeah. I've had both boyfriends and girlfriends."

"So who's this person you're throwing me over for?" James teased.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes, he's completely mad, absolutely public school, and posh as hell. But he's also the kindest, most generous man I've ever met and of course it doesn't hurt that he is drop-dead gorgeous."

John pulled out his phone and found a picture of the publicist. He showed it to James.

"Ah," James said.

"What?" John asked confused.

"Now that I've seen a picture, I realize that Mary and I aren't your type," James explained. John raised an eyebrow. "You prefer brunets."

John burst out laughing. "You've got me there."

"So tell me all about this Sherlock fellow," James teased. "I know you want to gush about him. It's all over your face."

John bumped their shoulders together. "You make me sound like a teenager with a crush."

James chuckled. "I'm not having a sleepover with you just so you can spill..." he warned.

John almost doubled over with laughter. "About that..." and he launched into telling James about his and Sherlock's 'sleepover' in Sussex and how they got to be such great friends.

James was a good listener and John could feel the weight lifting off his chest, finally being able to talk about Sherlock with someone who didn't know him before John did.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: So...you lovely people will get an extra chapter. And that is because after all the lovely comments I just HAD to put in Sherlock's take down of Jim. But it did kinda alter things a bit for the next chapter. But not a lot.**

**Now, the reason it took a little bit longer to get this chapter out is because after I hit the part this chapter ends I realized (with no small amount of horror on my part) that if I left it as is, the next chapter will be LONG, like by almost 1000 words or so. So I kept writing and ended it on cliffhanger. But I sent it to my beta, and to my husband Sidheman and they both agreed the original stopping point was better story-wise. But I was still having a panic attack that the next chapter was going to be so much longer than this one. But as my adoring husband pointed out, 1000 words may SEEM like a lot, but it's only a couple more pages. So I let cooler heads prevail and you get the chapter as it was intended. And you know, the joy of a nice looooonnnng chapter for next time, of which I have head start on.**

* * *

The day had finally come and the whole shop was in a twitter. The release party was to be held at 221Books with everyone heading to Mycroft's penthouse flat for the after party.

Something that did not make Mary Morstan happy.

"We're all invited to the after party?" she had asked last week when he brought it up.

"Yeah," John said, cocking his head to the side in confusion. "I wanted to thank you all for being so supportive over the last couple of months, as I know it couldn't have been easy picking up the slack when I had last-minute meetings with my agent and my editor. So I invited all three of you."

"I saw the notice said that everyone could bring a plus one," Mary said with a sniff. "You bringing anyone?"

"Not this again, Mary," John moaned. "There is no one in all of London who I would want to bring to the after party. Now leave it alone."

James and Mrs Hudson shared a knowing glance but wisely said nothing when the young nurse stomped her foot.

* * *

Sherlock walked into his final meeting with M&M Prints, cocksure.

Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty were already on their side of the table in M&M Prints' fancy conference room. They both rose to meet Sherlock when he walked in, and they all shook hands.

Sherlock set his briefcase on the table and sat down. "Thank you for meeting with me, gentlemen. Have you had time to look over my proposal?"

"Just to make sure I have this clear," Sebastian said, lacing his fingers together on the table in front of him and leaning forward on his elbows, "you want compensation for both shipments that were printed incorrectly, plus lost revenue. And then you wanted a 15% discount for the next five years as reparations, do I have that correct?"

"Yes, and all my dealings with your company will be with you only and _not_ Jim," Sherlock added.

"Aww..." Jim drawled. "I'm beginning to think you don't like me." He gave Sherlock a wink.

It took the publicist everything he had not to shudder in revulsion. "You should be grateful that I haven't pressed charges against you for harassment, Jim."

"We have, uh," Sebastian stammered, "looked into the allegations of harassment and found that there may be some merit to the accusations."

Jim grinned at Sherlock and Sebastian glared at Jim.

"If he were to agree to never do it again, would you be willing to work with him on the rare occasion I may be unavailable?"

Sherlock sat back and draped one arm over the back of his chair. "My problem with that is that I have a feeling that as time goes on, my contact with you would become increasingly less and with him decidedly more, that the harassment would return and in greater force."

Sebastian and Jim shared a glance.

"Can you ensure that such a thing won't occur?" Sherlock pressed.

"Afraid of the big bad Jim Moriarty, are we, Sherlock?" Jim taunted.

"I prefer to work with people I am comfortable with," Sherlock said, dryly.

"Of course," Sebastian said, rushing to assure him.

"I don't want your assurances, I want guarantees."

Jim stood up and leaned into Sherlock's space. "I am the head of this company and you _need_ us. I could have you right here, right now, and you'd be begging me for more," he snarled.

Sherlock blinked at him, unfazed. He looked over at Sebastian. "Is this how M&M Prints conducts business? With threats of harassment and then violence when told to stop?"

Sebastian grabbed Jim's shoulder and forced him to sit down. "No contact with Jim, reimbursement for one of the failed shipments, no reimbursement for the lost revenue, and a 10% discount for the next five years."

Sherlock mulled the offer over a moment before he replied, "No." He stood and grabbed his briefcase.

"You need us," Jim hissed. "I know the other printing houses won't touch you. I know Shercroft Publishing is on the verge of bankruptcy. You are one teensy-tiny cockup away from utter ruin. There will be no deal because you will be paying _us_ for the privilege of printing _your_ books."

Sherlock scoffed. "I most assuredly do not need you, Shercroft is not in dire straits, and the Diogenes Print Club has already agreed to begin printing our books after the beginning of the year. I don't know where you got your information, but you should have done your own digging."

Sebastian buried his head in his hands and ran his fingers down his face. "You can't–you can't pull out. We'd be ruined if you do."

Jim turned pale. "Seb? You're lying, you have to be."

Sebastian shook his head, "Before I took over the company from my late father, M&M's accountant came to me. Mr Knowles informed me that both our fathers had run the company like their own personal piggy bank.

"They were withdrawing funds for trips and houses and cars and all manner of frivolous things. Mr Knowles said that we had two years to turn the company around or it would have to be sold to the highest bidder."

"No!" Jim cried out.

Sebastian refused to look in his direction. "And then you became obsessed with Sherlock and Shercroft Publishing. I did everything I could to stop you, but soon it was beyond my control." He finally looked Jim square in the eye. "You ruined us. We are ruined."

"That bitch!" Jim roared, leaping to his feet. "If I get my hands on her I will skin her! I will turn her into shoes!"

Sherlock and Sebastian looked at each other in shock.

"I bet the records she showed me weren't Shercroft Publishing financial statements, but our own," Jim growled. "She told me if I started messing around with their orders, I could make them come crawling to us and we could renegotiate at a much better rate.

"She said that we could do it for a lot of our clients because print houses were going away and we could rake it in."

"Shite, Jim," Sebastian moaned. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock sat back down heavily. He pressed his fingers to his lips and sighed. "This source wouldn't have been Irene Adler, would it?"

"Yes!" Jim shouted.

"I feared as much," Sherlock sighed. "I'm afraid she caught you up in a little game to try and get me to go work for her. I believe her goal in ruining you was to make us look for another company and then bankrupt them as well. She would then swoop in and buy them out or if they wouldn't sell, she would buy out their rivals and undercut their prices.

"Irene has friends in high places. Very high places, and I wouldn't put it past her to try this again," Sherlock explained.

"Well, she has won this round then," Sebastian sighed in defeat.

"Look," Sherlock said sternly. "I recorded this whole meeting to ensure that Jim would leave me alone–"

"You can't use that in a court of law," Jim interrupted. "You have to inform us that you're recording in order for it to be admissible."

Sherlock chuckled darkly, "Who said anything about turning it over to the police? I would have sent it to every news station and publication on both isles and watched as your reputations went up in flame."

"So why tell us about it at all?" Sebastian asked.

"To make sure you don't do anything _else_ stupid," Sherlock explained. "But I do feel a little bad that you got drawn into a game you couldn't afford to play, so I will email Sebastian here a list of American contacts looking to expand their market overseas. It will be up to you whether or not you can procure them."

Sherlock stood up again, "Just keep Jim out of the meetings and in the printing room where he does his best work and I'm sure everything will work out for you."

Sebastian shook Sherlock's hand. "Thank you, I will."

Sherlock nodded, "I am sorry, but being duped doesn't excuse the absolutely appalling behavior, so I will not be losing that tape, no matter how sorry I am."

Jim shrugged. "Catch you later, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, "No. You won't."

He walked out onto the pavement and looked up at the snow that was beginning to fall. It was a good day. He had secured Shercroft Publishing's future and maybe Moran & Moriarty's as well. Provided, of course, Sebastian takes over as CEO and Jim is left _out_ of the boardroom, that is.

He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to catch lunch before heading back to his hotel room and getting his things in time to catch his plane.

He raised his hand and hailed a cab. Yes, today was a good day, and it was only going to get better.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: This story just keeps growing and growing. But I promise just one more chapter and then epilogue.**

**I would have had both chapters up today but I bashed my head pretty hard last Friday, I am almost certain I have a mild concussion. So I'll have the next chapter up this Friday. I would have done the editing on Thursday but I have a son and he LOVES Halloween, so yeah. Friday it is.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John looked round him as people milled about the small Westminster shop, more than there had ever been during the rest of the time it was open. But no matter how hard he scanned the crowd, the one person he wanted to see wasn't there. Yes, he knew that Sherlock had said he wouldn't be able to make it, but he still held out for a miracle that he would be here.

John kept glancing at his phone, not wanting to be late for his first reading. He jumped when a hand clapped his good shoulder. He whirled around and saw Bill Murray standing there with the biggest grin on his face.

"I hope you're not nervous," Bill joked.

"Who me?" John asked. "I mean, sure. I would rather face down a group of insurgents, my sister at her most drunk, _and_ Major Kincade yelling obscenities at me all at the same time than read in front of strangers. But nah, I'm not nervous."

Bill laughed. Bill Murray (not the film star) was John's shiny new literary agent. He specialized in former veterans, and especially war or battle stories written by said veterans. And he had picked John. Which still blew John's mind.

"You'll be fine, John," Bill soothed. "Just limit the alcohol and eat in small bites. Deep breaths and stand straight. You've got this."

John nodded. Yeah, he had this. Then he started shaking his head. No, no, no, no. He didn't have this. But before he could make a mad dash for the back room to never come out again, he got a text message.

"Don't panic. You've got this. Good luck- SH"

John took a deep breath and straightened his back.

Bill squeezed his shoulder again. "All right, it's show time. Go get 'em!"

John took a deep breath and walked out to where the podium was set up for him to read his first chapter.

"Hey, welcome to the first of what I hope to be many of these events," John said. He cleared his throat. "The book is called 'The War of One' and it is about a man lost in the desert who stumbles onto a magical world where words are weapons and silence is the most prized possession."

John started to read and a hush descended on the shop, allowing him to weave his tale. When he stopped, there was a quiet, like the crowd was holding its collective breath, and then there was applause.

John stepped away from the podium and started to shake hands with the members of the audience. He was giving Mrs Hudson a hug when he thought he saw a familiar set of dark curls.

He excused himself and tried to catch up to the mystery man, but he had vanished into the throngs of people. John put his hands on his hips and dragged his tongue over his bottom lip.

"You were marvelous," a warm voice murmured into John's ear.

He whirled around. "Sherlock!"

He threw his arms around the publicist, who chuckled and hugged him back. "I thought you weren't going to make it."

"I wanted to surprise you," Sherlock murmured.

"Best surprise ever," John agreed. "Oh how I missed you." He hugged him tighter and then let go.

"I have another surprise for you, but I left it in my luggage at Mycroft's, so it will have to wait until the after party," Sherlock said.

"You got me a present, too?" John asked, in shock. "You didn't have to do that, you being here is gift enough."

"Just wait until you see it."

John lifted his head and their noses brushed. Their breath mingled together and all it would take was to move just a hair's breadth and they would be kissing.

"Oi!" Greg bellowed. Sherlock turned his head to the editor, but John kept looking at Sherlock's lips a moment longer before he turned, too.

"There are a lot of people who would like to talk to the man of the hour, so if you could spare him for a few moments, Sherlock, I'd like to take him off your hands," Greg huffed, hands on his hips.

Sherlock and John laughed.

"Go," Sherlock urged John, "there'll be plenty of time to catch up at the after party."

John sighed. "Promise?"

Sherlock nodded, so John dutifully followed his editor back into the throngs of people.

He shook so many hands that the faces began to blur together, so it came as a surprise when James hugged him.

"I've been reading your book and it's marvelous, you did a really good job," James enthused.

"Yeah?" John asked. "It means a lot to me to hear that from you. I worried the most about former and current military personnel being upset by it."

"I think it adds an authentic touch," James said. He turned to look behind him, "So, that's Sherlock?"

John peered around him and saw Sherlock talking to Mrs Hudson. He smiled. "Yeah, that's him. What do you think?"

James laughed. "I think he's lovely. And far too good for you."

John blinked. "You talked to him?"

James grinned. He just patted John's good shoulder and moved on.

He was too stunned to say anything. James liked Sherlock. Well, would wonders never cease?

He was so lost in thought that he was unprepared for the hug/tackle that Mary gave him. John winced as most of her weight hit his hurt shoulder.

When she pulled back, she was practically vibrating. "Oh, god, John. The book was so good. I bought three copies. One to read, one for you to sign so I can have a collectors item for when you're famous and a third one to lend out to friends."

John closed his eyes and opened them slowly. "That's really sweet of you."

"So when does the tour start?" Mary asked. "I told Mrs Hudson I'm going to every one of your signings and I'm going to need those days off."

"You do realize it's going to be Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and if things go well, Europe, too?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Of course I do, John. But as your girlfriend, I have to be there to support you."

"Excuse me?" John nearly choked. "We aren't dating. I never said I would date you, and I'm interested in someone else. Someone _not_ you."

She giggled. "Oh, you say that now, John, but you'll come around." She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Men _always_ do."

John cocked his head to the side. "You did _read_ the acknowledgments, right?"

"Are you talking about Sherlock? Is that who you're interested in? Are you telling me you're gay?"

John squared his shoulders. "I'm not gay."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Or whatever people are calling it these days. He practically smeared himself all over you, and not once did I see you complain. So if you're not gay, what are you?"

"Okay," John took a deep breath, "I've tried being nice about this, I've tried ignoring it, I've tried explaining. So now I'm telling you. I assumed that because I was going to be going on tour soon that you would give up this idea that we were a couple, but clearly not. But this is beyond the pale. I. AM. NOT. INTERESTED. IN. YOU."

She leaned back with tears in her eyes. "I thought you liked me."

"You never gave me the chance to like you. You have been rude. You have been possessive. You have been clingy. And even if you hadn't been any of those things, you are still twenty and I am still thirty-five!" John's breath was coming out in hard pants as he fought down the anger that had begun to boil over.

"Age is just a number," Mary huffed, folding her arms in front of her chest and leaning on her back foot.

"Not to me it's not. You are far too young. You have your whole life in front of you and I'm not going to be your foundation. I want someone who's been through life long enough to know who they are and what they want out of this life. And I think I've found him," John pleaded with her.

"So you _are_ gay!" Mary wiped away a tear, but more streamed down her face.

John grabbed her shoulders and said firmly, "I'm not gay, I'm bisexual."

Her face went through several emotions, disbelief, horror, and then finally settled on rage. She raised her arms to tear out of John's grasp, and howled as she broke free. John immediately brought his hands up to protect himself, sure she meant to hit him.

Mary turned pale. She looked at John cowering before her raised arms and took a step back. And then another. But John couldn't see her, he still had his hands in front of face. Suddenly the rage drained from her and with a broken sob, she turned and ran.

John lowered his arms, stumbling back into a bookshelf, and leaned heavily against it to keep his knees from buckling.

Suddenly Mrs Hudson was at his side and directing him to a chair to sit on. "I'm so sorry, John. You warned me and warned me, but I thought it was just a silly old crush that she would get over. I never thought she would do this!"

John sat down and sighed. "Me too, Mrs Hudson, me too."

Thankfully not many people saw the commotion, so the rest of the event went off without a hitch and could even be called a rousing success.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Wah! There is only one more chapter left and it makes me so sad. I even had a hard time sending the epilogue to my beta because I didn't want it to end. But as the saying goes, "All good things must come to an end."**

**I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

John showed up to the after party late because he was trying to make sure that Mary wouldn't do something stupid. He called her roommates and let them know what had happened. They didn't seem surprised. John had also called her brother, who was listed on her CV as emergency contact, and let him know what had happened. Again, he seemed more resigned than surprised. John thought briefly about calling the cops, but he didn't want her in trouble, he had just wanted to make sure she was okay.

He took a deep breath and walked into Mycroft's flat. He had assumed it would be like the house in Sussex, but he couldn't have been more wrong. While the house was quite old fashioned in its design, Mycroft's flat was sleek and modern, but not in an abstract, minimalist sort of way. It was very stylish.

There were so many people, and all of them were influential in the writing world. There were publishers, editors, agents, and famous authors. John saw a couple of his favorites standing by the buffet table and he thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest at the sight of them.

Mycroft sidled up him as he stood in the doorway, stunned.

"It's a lot to take in, isn't?" the publisher murmured, handing John a drink, which he took gratefully.

"It has always been a dream of mine to be a published author and now I'm standing here...I don't belong. Everyone is going to start laughing at me, finally letting me in on the joke," John said, starting to hyperventilate.

"Impostor syndrome is a hell of a thing, and let me tell you that _everyone _here has experienced it at some point in their career, some might even still experience it. They just got better at hiding it," Mycroft explained.

John's head whipped up, "No, surely not..." he pointed to a curly-haired older gentleman with a straggly beard who was laughing with Bill.

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes even him. He actually wrote a beautiful piece about it, I'll send you a link for you to read later."

"Oh," John said, stunned.

"Sherlock is around here somewhere, I'm sure he'll find you," Mycroft murmured. "In the meantime, why don't you go get yourself something to eat? You look dead on your feet."

John nodded.

He went to the buffet table, pleased to see that Mycroft was as generous here as he had been in Sussex. And to his immense enjoyment, the table had all his favorites. Sherlock must have had a hand in the selections, considering how well the man knew John.

He was grabbing a serviette or two when a beautiful woman came up to him and stuck out her hand.

"Irene Adler, owner of Whiphand Publishing," she said.

John took her hand, careful of the long red nails. "John Watson."

"Yes, the man of the hour," she purred. "Have you thought about branching out to other genres?"

"My sister, Harry, reads the kind of books you publish, and I have no intention of writing that kind of story," John told her.

"It's not all whips and chains," Irene said. "We also do mlm and wlw, smut or not."

"I hadn't thought about doing a strictly romantic story, to be honest," John replied.

"And if he does, Shercroft will be happy to publish it," a warm voice drawled.

John felt an arm wrap around his waist and he leaned into the touch.

"Sherlock!" Irene exclaimed. "How goes your sojourn in Ireland?"

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, very well, another little chip you spent needlessly. Shercroft Publishing won't be working with M&M Prints going forward. But from what I understand, they will have a flood of American publishers wanting to add a little European credibility to their overseas markets."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sherlock dear," Irene simpered.

"I'm sure you don't, but I assure you any further attempts to orchestrate my removal from my own company will be met with investigations by the Met," Sherlock sneered.

Irene's eyes narrowed, "You may have won this time, dear, but I'll be back."

"And I'll be waiting," Sherlock warned.

She gave them a jaunty wave over her shoulder as she sauntered off.

"Thanks for that," John murmured into Sherlock's neck.

"You'll find a number of sharks in these waters, but if you have questions about anything, rely on Bill and Greg, oh and myself, of course. Any one of us will be able to steer you in the right direction. And if you want to get a second opinion, don't be afraid to," Sherlock murmured.

"Duly noted," John replied.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I have your present." He moved from John's side to retrieve a small package from a nearby chair. But before John could mourn his loss, Sherlock was back at his side.

John took the neatly wrapped gift, complete with matching bow, from the publicist. And immediately he could tell it was a book.

He ripped off the wrapping, bow and ribbon and gasped when he read the title. In beautiful gold lettering in front of a roaring griffin were the words "The Spring of the Gryphon by Sherlock Holmes" and in smaller print it read "Book One of the 'Seasons of the Beasts' Series".

"Is this...?" John breathed.

"Well, sort of," Sherlock replied with a blush. "It's a mock-up of the real thing. But it does have the full book in there."

John opened it up to the acknowledgments and had to fight back tears.

_This is for John, the first person in years to believe in this story. It wouldn't exist without you._

He closed the book and held it to his chest. "This means a lot to me." He looked down at his shoes. "Did you–I mean, have you seen my book's acknowledgment?"

"'To Sherlock Darling, yes I cut that scene. Because you were right as always, it was better without it.'" Sherlock quoted.

John's eyebrows shot up. "You have it memorized?"

Sherlock blushed. "I kept reading those two lines over and over again, because it gave me hope that you might feel the same."

John put the book down and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck. "Of course I do. How could I not?"

Sherlock took in a deep, shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around John's waist. "You were surrounded by blonds while I was away," he joked.

John let out a huff of laughter. "I met you first, they never even had a chance."

They stood in each other's arms just reveling in their combined warmth. After a moment, Sherlock spoke.

"I've managed to work it out with Mycroft; our tours will be together, well..." Sherlock explained. "Mine will technically start two months into yours, but I'll be traveling with you the whole time."

John looked up into his eyes. "Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, too choked up to find the words.

"Okay, yeah. Wow. I can't wait," John breathed.

They took a step back, but took each other's hand and went to eat and chat with the other attendees.

The warm glow in Sherlock's chest would brighten every time he would brush John's hand, or John's arm would wrap around his waist. They never strayed far from each other, always reaching out even if it was just a brush of fingers along the other's arm.

Soon there was a tinkling of glass, as Mycroft tapped a knife against his wine glass to get everyone's attention.

"Thank you all for coming," he began. "Especially to the man of the hour, John Watson."

There was a smattering of applause and raised glasses. John raised his glass in response.

"Who is turning into quite the golden goose," Mycroft continued. "If early predictions continue to be met, I do believe we have a genuine hit on our hands."

Again some small chuckles, and it took everything John had not to wince. He didn't think the speech was going that badly, but hardly anyone was reacting at all. John looked over at Greg who was glaring at them.

But even he was surprised when the editor picked up a throw pillow and tossed it and couple of its fellows into the crowd.

"Oi! John doesn't get the joke!" Greg barked.

And suddenly everyone was laughing and making apologies to John.

"Yes, ha ha," Mycroft said bitterly. "I am fully aware you lot _hate_ my speeches, but please don't take it out on John."

The crowd looked far more apologetic at that.

"Otherwise I'll force one of you lot to do the speech on my behalf, and I'm sure no one wants that," Mycroft warned. There was a lot of shaking of heads and murmuring the negative.

"Brilliant," Mycroft said brightly. "Now, where was I? Oh yes! John's book is doing wonderfully and I eagerly await the next book." He winked at John. "I look forward to working with him on all his future novels."

"Right..." John grumbled. "No pressure _at all_."

"None whatsoever." Mycroft grinned evilly.

That got a few genuine chuckles from the crowd.

"But enough about John," he continued, waving to quiet down the crowd. "I have the absolute pleasure of announcing the release of 'The Spring of the Gryphon', a reworking of the 2008 book 'Griffin's Steps', the post-apocalyptic urban fantasy by Sherlock Holmes, out next year."

An enthusiastic cheer went up. Sherlock blushed deeply as Greg whistled and pounded on his shoulder as he clapped.

Mycroft opened his arm and Sherlock went willingly to bury his face in his brother's chest.

"I'm proud of you," Mycroft whispered fiercely in Sherlock's ear and kissed the top of his head. "Taking the leap into writing is frightening enough the first time, but to try a second time? That takes real courage."

"Speech!" Greg called out.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Speech!" John echoed and the whole crowd took up the chant.

"I hate you all," Sherlock grumbled, but turned in his brother's embrace to face the crowd.

"I thought getting back into writing was a good idea, but if it involves speaking in front of you lot, I take it back," Sherlock began.

"Too late," Mycroft teased. "It's already gone to the printers."

"Damn," Sherlock deadpanned. "Well, it looks like you're stuck with me."

The crowd laughed.

"Mycroft called me brave just now," Sherlock murmured. "I don't feel brave. But I have confidence in my writing for the first time in years. Maybe ever."

A cheer went up and Sherlock ducked his head.

"And I owe it all to John Watson. If he hadn't picked up 'Griffin's Steps' that stormy day in Sussex, it would be him up here giving this speech and not me." He glared at John. "I'm still not sure he did a good thing, but his love for it reminded me of my love for the story. Because I do love it. I don't love the hate it got, but I do love it."

"Aww..." Greg teased.

John took a pillow and tossed it at him. Greg laughed and tossed it right back.

"I still can't believe that he would have such a positive reaction to something that had been the object of scorn for so long," Sherlock went on. "I hadn't met anyone outside this room that had really liked it–"

"That statement is still true, brother mine," Mycroft interrupted.

"Oh shush!" Sherlock growled at his brother. "A stranger then. Someone who hadn't known me for years."

John threw a pillow at Mycroft, who had to duck to avoid the fluffy projectile. The publisher stood back up and glared at John, who winked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He held out his hand and John took it, coming to stand next to the publicist.

"Thank you," Sherlock told him, putting everything he felt for this former soldier in those two simple words.

"I love you, too," John murmured.

Sherlock gasped, but his breath was taken by John putting his lips on Sherlock's.

No amount of cheering and dog whistling would convince them to stop.

Finally they came up for breath.

"About time!" Greg hollered. "Do you know how many times I had to listen to these two moon over the other. Sheesh!"

John and Sherlock looked at each other in surprise.

"You?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

And then they were kissing again.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, that is Neil Gaiman. But because this site doesn't like links, google Neil Gaiman imposter syndrome and click on the link to his journal. It's a lovely story. I love it. **


	21. Epilogue

**A/N: Here we are at the end and I want to thank everyone who has commented on this story. With particular thanks to purplehedgehog13, OhGodYes_CptWatson, NotaCapriSun, and sweetmarly, who commented on so many chapters (and in some cases all of them) and made it so much easier to dive right into the next chapter so I could see what their reactions would be. This story wouldn't be the same without you.**

**To my beta, who in our long acquaintance has never had so many chapters thrown at her so often. I did the math and I averaged a chapter every four days. And yet she rose to the occasion. Thanks Old Ping Hai!**

**To my husband, sidheman, who must have gotten tired of my constant pestering on how to spell a word, or when to stop a chapter, or how to get around a plot wall that I had accidentally wrote myself into. He is a gem.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

From fantasymagonline .com, an interview from writer Toby Gregson and fantasy author Sherlock Holmes. Spring 2019.

_I'm in a lovely cafe in Port Talbot, Wales, sitting across from Sherlock Holmes. He is looking stylish in his black suit and dusk blue shirt. He seems relaxed and at ease for someone who did not have a good first impression of the fantasy writing scene. _

Toby Gregson: Thank you for meeting me.

Sherlock Holmes: It's my pleasure.

Toby: I can't tell you how excited I am to sit down with _the_ comeback kid.

Sherlock: That makes me sound like I'm twelve.

Toby: _(laughs)_ You look twelve.

Sherlock: I moisturize.

Toby: _(laughs)_ Well, let's talk about your book, "The Spring of the Gryphon".

Sherlock: It is why I'm here, after all.

Toby: You could be here to talk about "Griffin's Steps".

Sherlock: _(winces) _That is certainly true, but I'm rather hoping it's the former rather than the latter.

Toby: _(pulls out both books)_ How about both?

Sherlock: Is it too late to ask you to burn that? _(he points to "Griffin's Steps")_

Toby: Yep.

Sherlock: _(groans)_

Toby: Come on, it's not that bad.

Sherlock: That's not what people usually say.

Toby: No, it's not. I've seen the reviews and most of them can't be repeated here. Why do think that is?

Sherlock: There has been a lot of speculation by myself and other people in the industry, that it was because I "hid" behind a pen name, how young I was when I wrote it, the LGBTQ+ climate at the time and the public's perception of that. But honestly? No one knows for sure.

Toby: They all sound pretty plausible to me. It could be any combination of that or all of them.

Sherlock: Your guess is as good as anyone else's.

Toby: But "The Spring of the Gryphon" is not that book.

Sherlock: No. I deliberately went through and remade everything.

Toby: Almost everything. I understand there is a scene here that is still word for word what it was in "Griffin's Steps", what was it?

Sherlock: Ajay and Rhys's first kiss.

Toby: Really? Why that one?

Sherlock: I tried writing it so many times it made my head spin. But whatever I wrote didn't have the same punch, the same innocence that original had, so I left it alone.

Toby:(nods) It certainly was one hell of a kiss. Can we discuss the main character for a bit?

Sherlock: Sure.

Toby: He was always a self-insert.

_And then like a bomb going off, the charming man I was talking to was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, calculating machine._

Sherlock: I was seventeen.

_I could tell I had hit a sore spot, so I rushed to bring back the Sherlock who had sat down with me._

Toby: That wasn't meant to be a criticism. I was just stating a fact.

_And all at once the walls drop and I could see the scared kid he must have been when he wrote "Griffin's Steps"_.

Sherlock: Sorry. _(ducks his head)_

Toby: I'm the one that should be apologizing to you. I understand that the Mary Sue or in this case Bobby Stu aspect was a perceived fault that critics latched onto when they reviewed the book.

Sherlock: It was a juvenile thing to do.

Toby: But if it was a problem, your editor would have picked up on it and had you change it.

Sherlock: True. He didn't.

Toby: Did Rhys change from "Griffin's Steps" to "The Spring of the Gryphon"?

Sherlock: No. He needed to be the same naive teenage he always was to carry the plot.

Toby: Did any of the other characters change?

Sherlock: In this book, no. In future books, you'll just have to wait and see.

_I sit up in my chair. This is the first time I've even heard the rumor there might be sequels._

Toby: Will there be more? Because that was one hell of cliffhanger.

Sherlock: _(chuckles)_ So my partner keeps telling me. And yes, it is set for four books. When I wrote "Griffin's Steps" it was originally meant to be a trilogy, but when I expanded the story, it became clear that it wouldn't fit into three books.

Toby: What all was expanded?

Sherlock: New characters were added and their arcs were included to round out the story a bit more.

Toby: You mentioned your partner, John H Watson. He was the reason you started writing again, how did that come about?

Sherlock: _(blushes)_ It sounds like something out of a rom-com or something even more sappy. Enemies-to-friends-to-lovers; caught in a rain storm, him finding my book amongst the hundreds of books in the library. And just loving it. And then convincing me to rewrite it.

Toby: You didn't start out as friends?

Sherlock: _(shaking his head)_ No. God, no. I may have stumbled on a few secrets I guessed when I first met him and _may_ have blurted them out loud.

Toby: Ouch. So is he one of the new characters in the sequels?

Sherlock: He is, but I made sure to run any developments with the character by John before committing them to paper.

Toby: So who is he?

Sherlock: You'll have to figure it out on your own when "The Summer of the Thunderbird" comes out next year.

_I nearly fell out of my chair. You've read it here first, readers; not only will there be sequels but the next one is due out next year._

Toby: Do all your boyfriends get the same treatment?

Sherlock: Well, Ajay is based off my first boyfriend, so it only seemed fair to give John his own character.

Toby: You're talking about Victor Trevor.

_The page shows a current picture of Victor Trevor and how he looked 10 years ago. The caption reads: Son of Conway Trevor and Judge Hasna Trevor._

Sherlock: To be fair, he was _very _fit.

Toby: _(laughs)_ Too bad that was his only redeeming feature.

Sherlock: _(rolls eyes)_ I know, right?

_I had learned my lesson earlier and knew I had to tread carefully._

Toby: Do you want to talk about him?

Sherlock: _(runs his thumb over his bottom lip)_ I learned recently that he was the one who had outed my real name to the press. That hurt.

Toby: Did he tell you?

Sherlock: _(scoffs) _As if he would stoop to speak to me. No, he was blasting me on some podcast and let it slip it was him. My brother dug a little deeper to see if he was making it up or not.

Toby: I'm guessing not.

Sherlock: Yeah. _(bows his head)_ It was like being outed all over again.

Toby: Did he give a reason for throwing you under the bus like that?

Sherlock: He told the podcast host– _(he clears his throat and he works his jaw. It is clear that this is not easy for him to talk about.)_ he told the host it was because he thought the furor around the book was because it was from–and I quote "a nobody". And that having the Holmes name behind it would cause people to swing back around to make it a hit.

Toby: But it backfired.

Sherlock: _(He brings his head back up to look me in the eye) _It very much had the opposite effect. Once people found out that I had used a pseudonym, the backlash became a veritable shit storm.

Toby: And to have to face all that at such a young age. You were only seventeen.

Sherlock: Made me an easier target, I think.

Toby: But there have been other teen authors, and such things weren't said about them.

Sherlock: No.

Toby: Well, "The Spring of the Gryphon" is not "Griffin's Steps", as it continues to rise on the best sellers' lists.

Sherlock: _(chuckles) _John and I have a bet on who hits number one first.

Toby: Tell him I'm betting on you, too.

Sherlock: Damn! That's what he said, too.

Toby: _(laughs) _So what do you say to all the haters now?

Sherlock _(blows a raspberry)_

Toby: Agreed!

_But it appears our time is up and we say goodbye. I watch as he walks away, and I get the feeling that he's finally found his place in the world. And even though I hadn't spent much time with him, I feel a sense of pride on how happy he is now._

* * *

_I hope you'll all join me on this ride that he has planned for us in _The Seasons of the Beasts series _and wish him all the happiness in the world. _

Sherlock walked into the house that he was renting with John and tossed his wallet and keys on the island in the kitchen.

John looked up from the hob, where he was cooking dinner and smiled. "Hey, beautiful. How was the interview?"

Sherlock draped himself over John's shoulders and sighed heavily. "Tedious."

John reached up with the hand he wasn't using to stir to scratch Sherlock's head. "I can't imagine that he laid off the hard questions."

"He didn't. But he was kind about it. He even stopped the recording a couple of times to let me compose myself," Sherlock explained.

"That's good. I'm glad Mycroft's friend recommended him," John murmured. Tobias Gregson had been chosen in particular for the interview for that reason. That he would respect Sherlock and not tear him down for a better story.

John lowered the heat on the hob and turned around. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock melted into John, and the former soldier gripped him tightly.

"I'm elated _and_ drained. How does that even happen?"

"Comes from getting something off your chest that had been weighing you down for years," John murmured. "You feel weightless because the stone you had been carrying for so long is gone, but the effort it took to get it off is draining."

Sherlock nuzzled his neck. "You are so good at this."

"I have a therapist, she explains these things to me," he said with a chuckle.

"What does she make of all this traveling?" the publicist asked.

"She's a fan, honestly. She seems to think I was stagnating in London," John said and kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

"You thrive on excitement and challenge," Sherlock replied. "It doesn't take a trained therapist to see that."

"Well, what do you know, you can be modest," John teased.

"But you see me just as clearly as I see you," Sherlock protested.

"I think it's that more that we understood each other on a level everyone else overlooked," he said with a shrug.

"You never cease to amaze me," Sherlock said, awed.

John chuckled. "I don't know why, I'm just ordinary."

"And there is nothing more important in this world than an ordinary man," Sherlock explained. "And you love me, which is marvelous."

"Loving you is easy," John replied. "I could love you forever."

Sherlock sealed their lips together and John let out a deep sigh of contentment.

When they broke apart, Sherlock murmured, "I was trying to impress you. The day we met."

John looked up, rubbing his nose along Sherlock's. "You certainly did. But I wasn't thinking like that. All I knew was that here was this absolutely gorgeous bloke walking into my life and pulling out my darkest secrets to the light of day and it hurt."

Sherlock blinked. "You thought I was gorgeous?"

John laughed. "You would pick out that one detail out of all of that. But yes, you berk. I thought you were gorgeous. Still do."

Sherlock hummed. "Well, I went and bagged me a very handsome soldier, so..."

"Handsome, hmmm?" John teased. "Well that is a step up. Before you left for Ireland, I was only good-looking, now I'm handsome."

Sherlock chuckled and dived in for another kiss. John hummed happily into his lips. He thought of that quote by Louisa May Alcott:

"_I've got the key_ _to my castle_ _in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen."_

Only, he _had_ unlocked the door. He opened himself up to his man and this life in ways he hadn't known possible. If someone had told him a year ago that he would be sharing a house with the man who had deduced him so thoroughly on their combined book tour, he would have thought them mad.

But as Sherlock continued to kiss him, all thoughts were filled with just the press of their lips together. Later he would curse about it and agree to going out to dinner, but right now he just wanted to kiss his partner as the meal he had planned turned slowly to sludge on the hob.

* * *

**A/N: There is a little reference to Doctor Who in here. Just as there a tiny reference to Good Omens in chapter 19. If you spot them, let me know.**

**Again thank you for reading this lovely story of mine. I loved writing it. It made me very happy.**

**What's next? Well it's supposed to be Curses! But I keep stalling out on it. But now that I don't have an excuse not to write it, it might help getting it out. However, this means that in the mean time you will most likely see more of my Good Omens stories being put up. I have a different beta for those and with how fast I was churning out chapters for this story, I haven't had time to get them edited. So now that this story is done, I should be able to devote the time to getting those edited and posted.  
**


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